


Not to Reason Why

by Atiaran



Series: Samantha [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiaran/pseuds/Atiaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fallout 3 fic. Charon's contract falls into the hands of Colonel Augustus Autumn, with serious consequences. Set after Raven Rock. Female Vault Dweller, named Samantha; possibly mild spoilers. T for some violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Standard disclaimer:**   None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but are instead the property of Bethesda Game Studios.  No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

 **Author’s note:**   This fic came from a random plot bunny that bit me while I was writing “On the Outside.”  I’m not entirely enthused about the way this story came out; I had almost no feel for it at all while I was writing it, but oh well.   Thanks as always to the lovely LadyKate, who was willing to beta in a fandom she doesn’t follow!

 _Theirs not to make reply,_

 _Theirs not to reason why,_

 _Theirs but to do and die_

 _Into the Valley of Death_

 _Rode the six hundred._

 _\--“Charge of the Light Brigade,”_   Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

 

The Wasteland sun rose high and hot in the scorching morning sky.  The land below it was dry, dead: the arid wind—as hot as the air from a blast furnace—blew in among the branches of blackened, leafless trees, rattling the bare limbs against one another; clouds of dust skirled here and there along the cracked remains of roadway, dancing among broken blocks of rubble and bones long since laid bare.  Except for the dust, all was stillness, silence and death.




 Across this barren land a lone figure came walking.  The man was tall, with broad shoulders; he wore metal armor that must have been boiling in the heat of the sun, with the stock of a shotgun jutting up over his right shoulder.  His regular, mechanical stride suggested someone driven to the far edge of exhaustion.  He moved as if he were fleeing something, as if no matter his own weariness he could not stop or even slow down—even for a moment—lest his pursuer fall upon him.  An observer would have found him a fitting denizen for this lifeless land, for one look at the rotted, decayed condition of his face, the sparse and patchy hair and the peeling lesions along his arms and neck, suggested that he himself was a dead man walking.

Charon _was_ fleeing, fleeing for his life in a very real way, though the danger he feared was not physical.  The sun had set and risen again at least once since the battle in the ruins of the Red Racer tricycle factory, perhaps more than that, but he had not counted.   They had not known that the factory had been taken over as an Enclave encampment when they had stopped to explore it; blind, he and his mistress had walked right into the trap.  She had shouted at him to save himself, as the Enclave men surrounded her; the very next moment, a plasma rifle burst had struck her squarely in the chest.  Charon had not waited to determine her fate, though he could not imagine his mistress could have survived; she had given him a command, and he had no choice but to obey.  He had turned and run, with Dogmeat bounding at his side, as the bulky forms of the power- armor-wearing soldiers closed in around her.  If she had not died immediately from the rifle blast, she must surely be dead now.

Dogmeat had left him as soon as they were clear of the factory grounds, setting off toward Vault 101 with a purposeful lope that Charon found himself envying bitterly.   Since that time, Charon had been walking. Alone.




Grief would come later—if it came at all.  Charon had known and lost many holders of his contract in his time—to death, to sale, to theft—and very, very rarely had he grieved for one….

Her eyes had met his.  Across the room, her eyes had met his, and she had shouted a command.  Not to save her; to save _himself._  

Something flickered, but it was only a flicker.  There was no room within him for more.  Not yet.  No room for anything but fear _._

It was monstrous, a gut-clenching atavistic terror that rose up from the back of his mind, threatening to roll over him and overwhelm his consciousness.  It was that fear that pressed him onward, looming to engulf him whenever he rested or faltered, driving him to push himself long past the point of collapse.  As long as he kept moving, he kept it at bay; when he stopped, the fear swallowed him.  So he walked, moving forward with no clear idea of where he was going, and without stopping to count the cost.

His mistress had died without passing his contract to anyone else.  Which meant that _no one held his contract._

Just thinking about it caused the panic to leap up; Charon cursed viciously between his teeth, throwing himself into each stride, forcing himself to concentrate on the play of muscle and bone in his limbs.  His boots pounded the dry earth beneath him as if he were grinding the fear beneath his feet at each step, trampling it into submission. His heart was hammering in his chest.  His breath came far too quickly.  No one held his contract.  His purpose—his entire reason for being—was now vacant.  The lodestone by which he had lived his life was gone.




Always before, when the holder of his contract died, there had been provisions made beforehand so that it had passed at once to someone else.  Or else, if they were killed, whoever had done the killing took up his contract and thus, his service.  Only once before had there been no immediate successor, and his fear at that time had made him so desperate he had landed in Ahzrukhal’s employ.  As evil a man as Ahzrukhal was, he had been willing to take Charon on at a time when he very badly needed someone to do so.  And a bad master was better than none.

Questions thronged at his heels.  _Where do I go?  What do I do now?  Who will give me orders?  Who will tell me my mission?  What can I—  How can I—  Where will I—_   He drove himself on, striving to outpace them, clinging to the last order he had been given.  _To save himself._   So he walked.  To where, he did not know, nor trouble to think.

He might have fled forever; he did not hear the rustle among the dried grass stems, nor the hot, panting breath of the creature that stalked him.  He was so lost in his own mind that he was unaware of the yao guai until claws raked across his back.

The impact did not hurt—the claws screeched off his metal armor harmlessly—but it knocked him sideways, jarring him back to reality with a brutal thump.  He whirled, feeling the creature’s reeking breath on the back of his neck, and struggled to bring up his shotgun, but the beast was too close.  A single swipe of its paw sent the weapon spinning aside.  Charon threw himself after it, but the yao guai pounced, and he was forced to skitter back.  The beast stood between him and the shotgun now, growling, and slowly began to pace toward him.

Charon scrambled to his feet, sizing up the creature.  The yao guai appeared to be young, but not in the best of health; mucus drooled from its nose and matted its fur, and unhealed sores clustered along its legs and sides.  Its bearlike head was lowered, and its brown fur bristled along its back.  Charon’s fear fell away from him at the prospect of a physical opponent, and he pulled his combat knife.

“Come on, then,” he snarled, holding the creature’s burning green eyes.  “You want some?”

His mistress had ordered him to work long-range, probably in a misguided effort to protect him, but Charon’s melee skills were strong as well; what was left of his skin prickled in anticipation.  The yao guai paced toward him, then lunged, striking out with its long, dagger-like claws—each one as long as one of Charon’s fingers.  Charon managed to evade, lashing out with his knife, and slashing a long, dripping red line down the side of the creature’s head.  The yao guai bellowed in pain, its head whipping back.  Foamy saliva dripped between its long, slavering canines, mixing with blood in the dust.  _First blood to me_.




With a series of coughing barks, the yao guai circled, then pounced again, striking with its long, powerful front legs.  Sick as it was, the creature was unbelievably _fast;_ Charon tried to evade this time but could not get out of the way.  Its claws clanged off his shoulder protection and sent him reeling.  He did not fall, but it was a very near thing.   He struggled, regaining his balance; then it was his turn to attack, extending himself in a wild lunge that carved into the creature’s right shoulder.  The yao guai bellowed again and recoiled, growling that hacking, ugly growl.  It circled away again, but Charon could see that it was favoring its injured leg heavily.  The fire in its eyes gleamed bright malice.

“Come on,” Charon snarled again.  “Once more.  Last time pays for all.”

The yao guai snarled back, slavering.   It crouched, and then sprang at him again; but it staggered on its bad leg, and collapsed to the ground.  Charon fell on it instantly, slamming his knee into its flank and sinking his knife into the side of its neck.  Blood gushed out in a hot stream, washing over his hands, painting the knife red. The creature gurgled a moment, then the last of its foul breath whooshed out of its lungs and it lay still.




Charon waited until it had stopped moving before drawing his knife out of the creature’s neck and wiping it clean on its shaggy, ragged pelt.  He stood, looking down at it for a long moment, watching the rill of blood dripping down its fur into the hard-baked dust of the Wasteland soil.  _I needed that,_ he thought, then knelt to butcher the beast.  _No sense letting the meat go to waste_. 

Inside, a great cloud had lifted.  The physical confrontation had jolted him out of his head and enabled him to think again.  The anxiety was still there, but it was manageable now.  Charon heaved a deep breath, took hold of himself, and tried to rationally appraise the situation.

The holder of his contract was gone.  _Dead, most likely,_ he thought, laying it out for himself in small, rational steps as he hacked through the yao guai’s thick hide and carved away at the meat beneath _._    That was a terrible thing—he could still feel the fear lurking at the back of his mind and tamped it down ruthlessly-- _but_ it was by no means the end of the world.   This had happened to him once before, and he had simply gone and sought out a new one.  He’d done it before, he could do it again. 

 _Maybe…maybe even a different holder this time,_ he thought.  _A **better** one than Ahzrukhal._

Yes.  A better one than Ahzrukhal.  There was something that seemed faintly blasphemous to him about daring to choose—to evaluate the holders of his contract in this fashion—but there was nothing in the terms of his employment that said he was not entitled to do this.  _Nothing,_ he reminded himself sternly, taking hold of the queasiness in his gut.  Once someone _did_ hold his contract, he was bound to obey them, but there was no term or condition that said he could not choose for himself. 

The last time, it had not even occurred to Charon to attempt to evaluate the character of the man he had approached to take his contract.  The very idea—that it _mattered_ whether his employer was a good or a bad man—would have seemed totally ludicrous to him; Charon could not have imagined anything less relevant.   All that had mattered to him the last time was that Ahzrukhal was willing to take him on.  He had learned better since then.  _A lot better._   After serving Ahzrukhal, followed immediately by his former mistress—and seeing the contrast between the two of them—Charon had come to realize how important his employer’s character was.  Serving Samantha had not been without its difficulties, but it was rain in the desert compared to serving Ahzrukhal.   His fingers tightened on his knife, as he swore silently that this time he would take more care with whom he chose.

 _But who?_   Charon drew a deep breath, feeling the panic recede a bit more. There was something about what he was doing now—going through things logically, thinking through things step by step—that was soothing in and of itself.  He was developing a plan now, not just flailing blindly.  He began tracing absent designs in the dust with his combat knife.  Blood dripped down the blade and pooled on the hard, parched earth as he turned the possibilities over in his mind, pondering who he might trust to take his contract.

 _Lucas Simms, the Sheriff of Megaton._   That was the first name that came to mind.  His former mistress had always spoken highly of the sheriff, and he had seen the very real respect between the two of them.  Lucas was among those fighting what the one called “Three Dog” termed “the Good Fight,” in his valiant struggle to keep Megaton a safe and orderly place for its inhabitants.  He was also an honorable man, and would not be likely to order Charon to do the kinds of things that Ahzrukhal had.  Of course, there was always the possibility that Simms might not accept him.  The first two people he had offered his contract to last time had turned him down, claiming they had no room in their set-up for him—though Charon had suspected that at least one of them had declined his service because he was a ghoul.  _If Simms turns me down, then who?_

 _Three Dog._ Charon considered the possibility and rejected it.  Three Dog seemed also to be a man of honor, but he was close with the Brotherhood of Steel.  Charon knew that the Brotherhood did not look kindly on ghouls.  Their attitude made no difference to him; things were the way they were, that was all.  His former mistress’s anger at those who treated him with what she perceived as lack of respect had always faintly mystified him.  It was nothing to be upset about; it simply _was._ But he suspected Three Dog might be unwilling to take him on because of it.  Three Dog himself might hold no animosity toward ghouls, but he would not want to anger his protectors.  _Not Three Dog then.  Who else?_

He scratched some more designs in the dust.  The earth was dark where the blood had soaked in.  _Sonora Cruz._ The head of the Regulators was another one fighting the Good Fight, and fighting it in a very direct way.  He had heard rumors that Simms himself was actually a member of the Regulators, and while he did not know if that was true, he knew that Simms and Cruz were both struggling to bring law and order to the chaotic Wasteland.   He did not know if the Regulators had anything against ghouls, but he had never heard that they did.  _Yes.  Cruz might be a safe choice._

Of course, she might not take him on either, he reflected, musing over what he knew of the Regulators’ association.  The Regulators seemed to be fairly loosely organized, with their members largely acting independently; Cruz might not be able to find a place for him.  Charon _could_ act independently—there was nothing in the terms of his contract that forbade it, as long as the holder of his contract clearly specified what his guidelines were and what his limits were—but Cruz might not understand that, or might not be able to give him orders in such a way as to make that possible.  She might turn him down for that reason, or be unable to fulfill her contractual obligations.   _And if she will not take me on…then who?_

 After a bit more thought, a third choice came to him.  _Hannibal Hamlin._   The leader of the escaped slaves from the former Temple of the Union, and their new colony at the Lincoln Memorial.  It was clear that they would need all the help they could get, defending themselves against not only the super-mutants who swarmed the D.C. area but also the slavers, who were bound to launch an assault on their colony.  Hannibal Hamlin would be in need of strong fighters.  Again, he might be prejudiced against ghouls, but Charon had detected no prejudice in the time that he and his former mistress had spent with the man.  _He may take me on then if the other two do not._

Charon pushed himself to his feet, almost sighing in relief.  He had a plan now, a course of action mapped out.  _I will try Simms first, then Cruz, then Hamlin.  Surely one of them will take me on._ He was not that far from Megaton, he calculated; he could probably make it there within the next two days.  The empty corpse of the yao guai lay at his feet; Charon sheathed his combat knife and began folding the meat into a piece of hide for safe keeping.  Cooking the yao guai meat would preserve it longer, perhaps long enough for him to get back to Megaton where it could be dried.  There was a relief in having the business of his contract settled in his own mind; to turn instead to the normal, comforting, day to day problems of existence.   Yao guai meat was valuable, almost as good as Psycho in strengthening one for combat, and unlike Psycho it worked on ghouls just as well as it did smoothskins.  _I should preserve this, certainly.  Drying it on top of my former mistress’s house will work._   He wondered with little interest if Simms would let him keep the house, and where he would have Charon bunk if not, then dismissed it; such questions were not his business, but Simms’s, or would be as soon as Simms had accepted his contract….

His contract….

 _He didn’t have his contract._

The thought burst on him with the concussive power of a frag grenade.  Charon’s knees gave under him and he dropped straight to his heels, almost falling over.  He caught himself on his hands, breathing hard, the shallow quick pants of a marathon runner.  He could not have been more shocked—more _appalled_ —if he had woken up to find that the sun had gone out.  It was that fundamental a violation of the terms of his existence.  He didn’t have his contract.  His former mistress had always carried it on her person, and he had not been there to retrieve it at her death.  Therefore, it was gone.

The black tide he had thought he had safely defeated surged back, ten times stronger, a _hundred_ times stronger, swallowing him utterly.  Without his contract, he was lost.  No provisions had been made for what would happen to him—he had never been given orders to cover this situation—and without his contract, he could not even seek them out.  He could not take another master without his contract. 

The blank wall of terror stretched across his mind, stopping thought.  His breath came short; iron bands seemed to be compressing his chest, choking him.  He could do nothing but crouch there, shivering in the dust, trying to get his mind around the idea that he had _lost_ his _contract._ He knelt there, while buzzards gyred in the sky above him and the dry wind blew aimlessly across the barren earth.  _Lost and gone forever,_ his mind hellishly repeated, a line from a meaningless prewar song that came surging into his consciousness. _Lost and gone forever…._  

He closed his eyes, pressing one fist to his forehead.  _Help me…Mistress…help me…._

He did not know how long he huddled there, lost in the fear, before the vague form of an idea came to him.  If he had lost his contract…then perhaps he should go find it again.




Charon clutched at the idea as if it were a lifeline.  It would mean storming the fortified Enclave encampment of the Red Racer tricycle factory, dealing with scores of heavily-armed Enclave soldiers—but Charon was not bothered about the details; his need was too great for that.  He could not continue his life without his contract.  Either he would retrieve it or he would die trying, it was that simple. 

He rose to his feet, and turned to put the sun behind him, shielding his eyes.  He had no idea how far he had come from the factory, or how long it would take him to get back there; nor what the Enclave would have done with his former mistress’s body.  Nevertheless, he had to go back.  It was better, by far, than going forward.  And he had no other choice.

Charon set off, along the cracked and broken roadway.

[*]

Deep inside the bowels of the Red Racer Tricycle Factory, Samantha shifted restlessly from foot to foot.

She was standing on a metal disk, about three feet in diameter.  On one side of the disk was a vertical pole perhaps seven feet tall, which supported another disk of the same size above her head.  The air between the outer edges of the two circles cracked with white energy, forming a cylindrical holding field that kept her imprisoned.  She had tried brushing the field with the tip of one finger experimentally, and had jerked her hand away, swearing; she had received a nasty jolt, like the worst static electricity shock ever.  Even now, hours later, the end of her finger still tingled.

Her armor was gone; they had taken it from her with all the rest of her possessions, and she stood imprisoned in this cell in nothing more than tank top and shorts.  Underneath the tank top, her chest was bandaged and tender, the muscles sore and stiff.  She had seen the green blasts of plasma fire coming towards her, had felt the crackling energy rocket through her system, heard the breath whoosh out of her lungs, and had thought she was done for.  She’d even had time to think, _So this is how it ends: the death of the Last, Best Hope for Humanity—I wonder how Three Dog will report this?_ before the blackness closed in.

 _So imagine my surprise to find myself waking up a few hours later in an Enclave medical bay,_ she thought sourly, and contemplated brushing the field with her fingertip again.   

“He wants you alive,” one of the Enclave doctors had told her, bending over her with a face that displayed neither concern nor compassion, but a sort of dreadful professional detachment.  “That’s why the plasma rifles were set on sub-lethal.”

Samantha had not known plasma rifles even _could_ be set to sub-lethal.  “Who wants me alive?” she asked, and gasped as the doctor inserted an IV needle into her vein.

 “Colonel Autumn.”  The doctor had said no more, no matter how Samantha tried to cajole and persuade her.  Samantha grimaced in anger at the memory and shoved her hand at the containment field again, then snatched it back with a muttered curse; this time the jolt had sent sparkly tingles of pain all the way up her arm to the shoulder, and the sore place in her chest flared.  _Touching that again would probably be a Bad Idea._

After the doctor had finished patching her up, Samantha had been taken in hand by two hulking Enclave soldiers in that bat-like powered armor of theirs and marched here.  She had not tried to fight; there was no way she could win against soldiers in powered armor, and very many ways indeed that she could lose.  They had taken her here and dumped her into this restraining field, and then simply left, locking the door to the room behind them.  She’d been left here for she couldn’t even tell how many hours; they’d taken her Pip-Boy away.  Left here all alone, with nothing to do….except chew on the fact that Colonel Autumn apparently had plans for her.




 _Great.  And I just bet I know what they are, too._   She’d been standing right outside the reaction chamber as her father had sacrificed his life to avoid handing over control of Project Purity to the man who now held her captive.  She’d seen the whole thing, watched her father’s agonizing death of massive radiation overdose.  _If he thinks I will have **anything** to do with helping him achieve whatever the Enclave’s twisted goals are, he’s got another think coming._    She huddled on the cold disk, feeling the treaded metal of the floor press into her bare feet, and set her jaw.  _I’ll never help him._   Samantha was wise enough to recognize the bravado in that thought.

To distract herself, she tried looking around the room.  Not much luck there, however; other than her holding capsule, the room was completely bare.  No furniture, not even a desk or a locker.  That, of course, was only important insofar as it meant her gear was not in her cell with her—lessening her chances of escape.  She wondered where all her stuff was, and if she would ever see it again.  Then she wondered if anyone would ever see _her_ again.  Then she shut down that line of thought entirely.  _Another Bad Idea…._

She straightened when she heard the handle turn on the door to the room.  _Here they come._ Quickly she pushed herself to her feet, turning to face the entrance.  Her heart began to beat faster with anticipation, and she swallowed uneasily.  The door opened.  Someone was stepping through it.  That someone….

“ _Charon?”_  

Charon jerked in shock and turned toward her. “ _Mistress_?” 

“I told you to _flee_!”  Samantha said accusingly.  “What are you doing back here?”

“You did not tell me to flee.  You told me to save myself.  I did so,” he explained, still standing in the doorway for any passerby to see.  _He must be **really** rattled,_ Samantha thought; normally Charon wouldn’t make a mistake like that. 

“Well, get in here and close the door quick, before some Enclave soldiers come by.  Did….”  She hesitated.  “Did you come back to rescue me?”

“No.”  Back on firmer ground, Charon did as she had ordered.  “Rescuing you was not your command to me.  In addition, I…I saw you take two plasma bursts to the chest.”  He was examining her closely.  Samantha grimaced.

“The plasma rifles weren’t set to ‘lethal,’ it turns out; they took me to one of their doctors, and she patched me up.  The Enclave apparently wants me alive.  Come on, get me out of here.”

As if he were in a dream, Charon moved to her restraining chamber and touched the controls; the field crackled out of existence. Shivering, Samantha stepped down from the metal disk, wincing as her bare feet made contact with the filthy floor.  _What’s shaken his tree?_   “Let’s go.  I don’t want to still be here when Colonel Autumn gets around to looking for me.”

“As you say.”  Yet Charon still hesitated.  _He looks as if I’m some strange, dangerous creature he’s never even heard of before…_   “Mistress….do you have my contract?”

 _What?_   She held out her hands, gesturing toward her armorless self.  “Do I _look_ like I have your contract?” she asked him.  “They took everything away from me when I was captured. Which means we have to go find my stuff before we get out of here, because I’m not going to hike across the Capital Wasteland unarmed and unarmored.   Come on.  We need to get moving.”

“You do not have my contract?”

“I already told you I didn’t.  Now come on.  Did you bring a weapon for me, or am I going to have to equip myself off a downed soldier?”

“You…lost…my contract,” Charon repeated slowly, as if he were having trouble grasping the concept.  Samantha met his gaze, feeling her own irritation rise inside her

“As I told you twice before, _yes,_ ” she snapped.  “Now, here I am, unarmed and unarmored, alone with an entire base of Enclave soldiers between me and the way out, and all you can think of to talk about is whether or not I have your contract?  Come on.  We need to get task-oriented in a hurry.”  She shouldered past him and headed toward the door.

“You _lost_ my _contract?!_ ”

Charon did not shout.  Samantha had never heard him shout in their entire time together.  Nor did he shout then—but if he _had,_ she could not imagine it would sound much different.   Echoes rang off the concrete walls and floor.  She whirled to face him, her heart pounding, shocked, not just at the loudness of his voice, but at the fact that he was showing this much emotion.   Her eyes flew to his face.

“Charon, it’s not my fault—  I didn’t mean to—“ she heard herself stammering.

“ _How could you lose my contract?!”_

He was advancing on her now, his hands clenched into fists.  Samantha immediately started backing away, a cold chill racing down her spine.  The ghost of Ahzrukhal loomed in her mind.  _Ever since I bought his contract, some part of me always wondered—_ There was no way she could fight him, unarmed, unarmored, and wounded as she was.  Some part of her mind was still struggling to come to grips with the fact that she was backing up from _Charon_ of all people.

“Charon, keep your voice _down_ , for God’s sake!  The Enclave might hear!”  If they didn’t already know somehow that her containment cell had been shut down.  Thoughts rushed through her mind:  _It is not a good time for this sort of argument._   “I’m sorry,” she said rapidly.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t do it on purpose.  The Enclave—“

“You’re _sorry?_ ”  Charon repeated the word incredulously, as if it had no meaning.  “How could you _do_ this to me, Samantha?” 

She frowned.  “Wait—‘Samantha?’”

“You no longer hold my contract,” Charon snarled.  “You are not my mistress anymore.  I have _neither_ master or mistress now.”  He loomed over her, and Samantha shrank back, feeling her eyes widen.  “How—If you had only—Samantha, how _could you?  How—_ ”  He looked as if he wanted to strike her.  His hands snapped open and closed at his sides.  With a visible effort he controlled himself, turned away from her and flung himself down against a wall, sliding down to rest with his arms on his knees. 

Samantha studied the slump of his shoulders.  _I was wrong.  He is not angry.  He is…afraid?_   Somehow the idea of Charon being afraid was even more disturbing than that of him being angry.  Charon had faced down raging yao guai, super-mutants armed with missile launchers, Talon and the Enclave, and she had never seen him show the slightest bit of fear.  _But he is afraid now…_

Greatly daring, she went to crouch next to him.  “But…but that’s not true, Charon, is it?  I mean—just because I don’t know where your contract is right now…The terms—“

“The terms do not specify you by name, or anyone,” he cut her off.  “My services are not offered to any individual, but to _the holder of the contract._   That is the exact terminology.   If no one holds my contract, then I have no master.   When you failed in possession, then I became intestate,” he explained brittlely.  “My contract is unclaimed property until and unless someone picks it up.  I cannot even seek a new master without it—certainly cannot accept one.  You _lost_ me,” he ground out, and pressed one hand to his forehead, closing his eyes.  Samantha had never seen him look so utterly defeated.  

Samantha leaned back against the wall next to him and exhaled slowly, suddenly blindsided by a sick wave of guilt. She had never understood just how important Charon’s contract was to him until this moment, when she watched him completely undone by its loss.  “Charon, I’m sorry,” she said again.  “I’m so, so sorry—“

“ _Sorry,_ ” he spat bitterly.  “What does that matter _now?_ ”  His voice grated, as rough as two stones scraping.

“Maybe…maybe we can find it again,” she ventured, casting about for some way to make it better.

“ _How?_ ”  he snarled, and lowered his forehead to rest on his arms.

“Well, by looking.”

“Where would we even begin to _look_ for it?”  His stringy, lank hair that perhaps had once been black, fell over his face, obscuring whatever expression his rotted features held.  One fist clenched.

“Well, we could _start_ by looking for my gear,” Samantha cajoled him.  “If we can find that, I’m sure the contract will be in there too.”

“And just _where_ would that be?”  The biting sarcasm of his words was muffled against his arms.

“Well, how about somewhere else in the factory, for a start?” she asked him.  “Come on, Charon.  The faster we start looking, the faster we’ll be able to find your contract.”

The ghoul glanced up at her with one faded eye.  Slowly he let her persuade him to uncurl. 

“If we don’t find it….” he began.  Samantha wondered whether that was a threat, and shivered.  Ahzrukhal’s fate rose again in her mind.  She forced an insincere grin. 

“I’m sure we will,” she replied.  “But we have to start looking first.  Now did you bring a weapon for me?”

She got him to hand over a silenced 10-mm pistol—though she grimaced in disgust; while better than nothing, this would be almost useless against armored Enclave soldiers—and then went to the door.  “Come on,” she told him, opening it a crack and peering out.   “The coast is clear. Let’s get going.”




 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 Samantha’s first order of business was to find some clothing; as she told Charon, “This base is dirty, drafty and cold.  I’m _not_ sneaking around here in just shorts and a tank top.”  Charon looked like he wanted to protest, but turned away with a sharp growl.  Before too long, a distracted Enclave scientist happened along; her attention engrossed in some sheets of paper in her hands, she wasn’t looking around her.  Samantha hid in the shadows, then cracked the woman smartly at the base of the skull with her pistol and relieved her of her clothing.  The white lab coat was not what she preferred; it would show up in the dark hallways, but there was nothing else.   Sifting through the scientist’s pockets, she discovered an access key card, which might come in useful sometime or other, and an AEP7 laser pistol—better than her 10-mm pistol, but not as good as her preferred plasma rifle.  Still, she tucked it into her pocket. 

“My gear is probably in the armory,” she whispered to Charon as they crouched in the shadows at the base of a set of metal stairs.  The ghoul was fuming with impatience.  The room they were in was wide and open, with a metal platform running around the walls leading to stairs that reached up to a second and third platform above them.  “Which I think is on the ground floor, probably through that door.”  She pointed.  “I’m dressed like a scientist.  You wait here and I can—“

“No,” Charon said brittlely.  “I’m going with you.  And we’re going now.”  He glowered out across the factory floor. 

“Are you kidding?  Look at it—it’s so open!  You’ll never make it up the stairs without getting caught.  If  we had a Stealth Boy that would be different, but—“

He turned and glared at her so fiercely that she drew back, her hand actually straying to the stock of her pistol.  “We’re going now.”  And with that, Charon made his move.

Staying in the deepest shadows at the edge of the wall, the ghoul carefully slipped from pillar to pillar, crouching so that he could be shielded by the rail.  Samantha watched, fascinated.  The only thing he had going for him was that the room was thinly populated; there were only a few Enclave officers present and most of them were clustered around a bank of computer equipment, fiddling with it.  Charon was taking such care with his movements that his steps didn’t even ring on the metal treads.  Samantha had never known he had such skill at stealth.  _Well, when did you ever ask him to be stealthy?_   A moment later and he had reached the door she had indicated and slipped through.

It took Samantha a moment to follow; she was rather taken aback by Charon’s disobedience.  _He’s never disobeyed me before…_   Before.  Right.  With a sigh, she braced herself, then stepped out from the shadows.

She did not attempt to emulate Charon’s stealth.  Dressed in the garb of an Enclave scientist, she looked like she was _supposed_ to be there; not only was the white lab coat unsuited for sneaking around in, but if anything the sight of a sneaking scientist might even draw more attention.  She kept her head up and eyes forward, and walked toward the door at a smooth, confident, regular pace.  _Look like you know what you’re doing,_ she told herself.  _Look like you know what you’re doing…._   No one so much as glanced in her direction, and in a moment she too had pulled open the door and found herself in the hall.  She half expected to find that Charon had not waited for her, but he had, though he looked as if someone had lit a fire under his feet.  “Come on,” she told him in an undertone.  “Let’s get going.”

It was less difficult to find the armory than Samantha had feared; the Enclave, in their mania for order, had already posted guidance diagrams on the corridor walls.  It took her only a moment to decipher them.  The armory was apparently in an old maintenance room underneath the factory, accessible by a blind stairwell; carefully, she and Charon skulked their way through the corridors to the stairwell, then after a quick check for guards or turrets, opened the door, and started down the stairs. 

Charon was deathly silent as they made their way through the base; yet he did not need to speak. His every movement crackled with suppressed tension. Samantha darted an uneasy glance at him. She had had him as her follower for months, had thought she had come to know him, at least a little. But this man was a complete stranger to her. _Who is he?_ she wondered, and again thought of Ahzrukhal with a shiver.




“We’ll find it,” she told him.  “I promise.”

Charon glanced at her, and did not reply.

There were two guards on either side of the Armory door, hulking in Tesla armor. Samantha cursed and wished for her reservist's rifle, but a pair of head-shots with the laser pistol from the shadows took them out. The keycard found on the body of one of the guards unlocked the door, and within moments they were through. Together, she and Charon dragged the bodies of the guards into the armory, then closed the door behind them. Samantha stopped for a moment to run her eyes around the room. It was fairly large, lit by the harsh glare of unshielded bulbs, and filled with battered metal shelving units holding boxes of ammo, weapons and mines. Around the edges of the room ran lockers holding sets of armor, as Samantha determined on opening one. _Tesla, Enclave, Recon Armor, Metal Armor, Combat Armor,_ she mused, throwing open one locker after another. _Even if we can’t find my stuff, I could easily re-equip myself here—_




“My _contract,_ Samantha,” Charon insisted harshly.

“All right, all right, hold your horses,” she said, turning back toward him.  It was still vaguely unsettling to hear Charon refer to her as “Samantha;” she wondered with a shiver if she would ever grow used to it.  “Here, why don’t you check those lockers along the far wall while I look in the footlockers over there?”

The footlockers were piled against the back wall, and again a simple swipe with the stolen keycard was enough to open them.  The first one contained nothing but unloaded weapons— _not especially good ones, either,_ Samantha thought, tossing a laser pistol aside in disgust.  The second was filled with scrap metal, as was the third, and she cursed under her breath.  _Maybe it’s not here after all,_ she thought.  The banging of Charon opening and shutting lockers drifted over to her.

“Charon, finding anything over there?”

 “No,” the ghoul responded shortly.  “Samantha—“

“Hold on, all right?  I’ve got one more box to check.”  She pushed the top box off and swiped her card through the lock for the final box.  _This better be it._

The lid popped open and Samantha exhaled in relief; she recognized the equipment in the final box immediately. Her beloved shishkebab was piled on top, and beneath it was her plasma rifle, her Xuanlong assault rifle, and her reservist's rifle.She could see the crackling coils of her Tesla armor beneath it, along with the familiar gashes and gouges her armor had picked up as she had traversed the Wasteland, and the twist of fabric where she kept her caps.




“Found it!” she exclaimed triumphantly .

“My contract?”  Charon was at her side in what seemed an instant.

“My _stuff,_ ” she said happily.  “It’s got to be in here somewhere, Charon, hang on, just let me get this—“ She began lifting out pieces of her Tesla armor, grunting slightly at the weight.  _Pip-Boy—that goes directly onto my arm,_ she thought, sliding the tool over her hand.  Weapons were piled in a heap by the side of the footlocker, along with chems— _they took all the ammo, bastards.  Oh well—not like there isn’t plenty in here,_ although looking around it seemed as if most of the ammo here was for energy weapons _._   A few odds and ends she had picked up—a lawnmower blade, perfect for making another shishkebab, or repairing her own; a couple of pre-war books, saved for Scribe Yearling; her lucky 8-ball—she tossed it up and caught it with a grin—

“Find my _contract_ ,” Charon ground out.

“It’s got to be in here somewhere, just hang on.”  She reached into the box, plunging her hands into the jumble of odds and ends, searching for the single laminated sheet that was Charon’s employment contract.  Her hands came into contact with the smooth floor of the crate and nothing else.  Samantha frowned, stirring the mess.

“It’s _got_ to be—“  She stirred the mass of litter some more, turning up bottles of expensive whiskey and scotch intended for sale to Moriarty or Moira; a couple of pencils reading “RobCo” that she had been bringing back as souvenirs for Nova and Gob; and there was the box of Sugar Bombs meant for Murphy.  Still no contract.  _Where is it?_

Charon had the same thought.  “ _Where is my contract?_ ”

She stirred some more.  Still nothing. By now she had sifted through just about everything in the crate.  She pulled aside a pile of surgical tubing and a fabric-wrapped rad-scorpion poison gland she had picked up for making dart guns and sat back on her heels. 

“It’s not in here,” she said quietly.  A sick space had opened up inside her.  Judging by the twisting of Charon’s rotted features, he was feeling the same thing she was.

“What do you _mean_ it’s not in there!?” he demanded, sounding almost frantic.

“I don’t understand.  Everything else is in there….” She pressed her hand to her head.  “Why would only that be missing?”

“Move over.”  Charon almost shoved her out of the way, diving into the box himself and pawing through the mess, tossing odds and ends aside.

“What are you—“

“It’s got to be here.  It’s _got_ to,” he growled, his rotted features set, his faded eyes horribly intent as he tore through the box.   At last he too sat back.  His hands clenched and he slammed one fist brutally into the wall with a snarl of desperation.  Samantha watched, both unnerved and wishing she could say something to help.

“Charon, I’m sorry—“ she tried again.

“Shut up.  Just shut up.  This is _your_ fault,” he accused, turning on her furiously.  She drew back, alarmed.

“I already said—“

“Why the _hell_ didn’t you lock my contract up in Megaton where at least it would be _safe?!_    You didn’t even take precautions, or arrange for a line of succession—What did you _think_ was going to happen, Samantha?!  Now _you_ don’ t know where my contract is, _I_ don’t know where it is, we’ll _never_ get it back—“

“I didn’t know I _needed_ to!  You never told me—“ Samantha tried to defend herself weakly. 

“You didn’t _know_?!  You never thought to _ask_!  You never thought to ask me _anything!_ ”  he raged.  Samantha actually scooted back from him.  “The contract gives me obligations to you, but never _once_ did you think of asking what _your_ obligations were to _me_!   What’s going to happen to me now, Samantha?” he snarled, rising suddenly to his feet.  Samantha scrambled up as if yanked along by a string.  “Did it ever occur to you _once_ to ask that question?  _What’s going to happen to me?!_ ”

Charon was trembling.  Though Samantha could easily see that it was fear rather than anger that was driving him, she still stepped back, more than intimidated—almost frightened herself by the strength of his emotions.  He loomed over her, his decayed features contorted into an even more demonic expression than usual.  Samantha groped for words.

“Charon, you are absolutely right and I am sorry,” she said rapidly.  “I should have asked you.  I didn’t because you seemed like such a private person and I didn’t want to pry—I figured if there was anything you wanted me to know, you’d tell me—but that’s no excuse.  I should have asked—“

“Should have?  _Should have?!_ What good does that do _now?!”_

“Well, what do you want me to say?  You didn’t exactly speak up either—“

Charon was about to respond when the whines of multiple laser weapons powering up cut them short. "Excuse me, sir and madam," an all-too-familiar voice drawled.“I most certainly didn’t mean to interrupt.”




The two of them had been so lost in their argument they hadn’t even noticed the door to the armory swinging open.  Now, they wheeled toward the entrance, moving together as one.  Charon edged behind her into his customary support position without a word being said, as Samantha slid forward.  Her hand began to stray toward her weapon—

“All right, little lady, hold it right there,” the man in the entryway ordered genially.  “Drop your weapons and put your hands over your heads—yes, you too, sir,” he told Charon.  “Now come forward slowly, and no funny business—as you can see for yourselves, we’ve got you at barrel’s end.”

They had. Samantha swallowed.  For standing there, in the entrance to the armory, were two Enclave soldiers clad in Tesla armor and armed—as Samantha could see—with Gatling lasers, and as if that weren’t enough, they were commanded by none other than Colonel Autumn himself.

Colonel Augustus Autumn.  _The head of the Enclave forces._ Samantha had seen him twice before; there was no mistaking either that voice or that bearing.   He was a man of average height and build, clad in a tan trenchcoat with smooth features and short-cut brown hair that was slightly running to gray, but with a carriage and deportment so rigidly correct—so purely military—that there was no way he could ever be mistaken for anything other than a true soldier.  His voice was similar to President Eden’s—warm and cultured with a faint trace of a Southern accent, though even he could not match the degree of Eden’s artificial geniality.  Aside from his trench coat, he wore no armor whatever, and though he carried both a standard 10-mm. pistol and an AEP7 laser pistol, he made no move to draw either of them.  _He doesn’t need to,_ Samantha thought bitterly, taking in the heavily-armed soldiers to either side of him.  _Either one of those two have us outgunned— **and** they have the element of surprise._

“Samantha?” Charon rasped behind her.

“Do as he says.”  Her own weapons crashed to the floor in defeat.  “They’ve got us at their mercy.”  Slowly she raised her hands. Charon hesitated for a moment—during which Samantha’s blood ran cold at the thought he might actually try to contest Autumn’s advantage—but he must have come up with similar odds to hers, for she heard his own weapons fall to the floor a moment later. Autumn nodded.

“Very wise of you, sir.”  Autumn paused, regarding them.  “I do apologize,” he said, in that same genial voice.  “It appears that the two of you were having some sort of argument when my colleagues and I discovered you.  As I said before, I surely didn’t mean to interrupt; it just occurred to me that perhaps I could be of some use resolving your…little difference of opinion.”

“What do you mean, Autumn?” Samantha demanded.

Autumn smiled, a broad, cheery, ingenuous smile that somehow never reached his eyes.“You’re Samantha, are you not?  The daughter of the esteemed founder of Project Purity…yes, James’s death was something I deeply regretted, I must say.”




“You _killed_ him,” she snarled back at him.  Autumn shook his head sadly.

"He killed himself, young miss," the Enclave officer replied. "I would have done anything to prevent it. The loss of such a great mind was truly a tragedy for us all. But we were speaking of your little altercation." He paused and regarded them both, his eyes going behind Samantha to Charon.“You were arguing—and please do correct me if I’m wrong—about the disposition of a certain ‘contract.’”




“What’s it to you?” Charon growled harshly.

“It’s our business, Autumn, and none of yours,” Samantha spat back at him.  “Stay out of it.”

“Of course, of course,” the Enclave officer agreed, smiling that friendly smile.  “However, after you were apprehended, I took the liberty of rummaging through your possessions, young miss—and I do hope you will forgive me—and I happened to come upon this interesting piece of reading material.  Well, I was so fascinated that I guess I must have simply walked off with it.  I’m wondering whether _this_ might be the ‘contract’ that you seek.”

He reached into his trenchcoat and pulled out a very familiar piece of laminated parchment.  Samantha’s blood ran cold at the sight of it.  She made a lunge for it, only to be brought up short as the Tesla-armored soldiers started to raise their Gatling lasers.  “Give it back!” she cried.

“All in good time, young miss,” Autumn chided her.  “Now, from what I read here,” he said, looking over Samantha’s head, “this contract entitles the holder to the services of one ‘Charon.’  I do believe that’s _you,_ is that not correct, sir?”

Heedless of the peril, Samantha whipped around to stare at Charon.  Charon had gone very still.  The ghoul’s total attention was focused on Colonel Autumn.  “That is correct,” the ghoul rasped, his voice stone on stone.

“My, my, my,” Autumn mused quietly.  “And I believe that the current holder would be…why, that would be _me,_ would it not? _”_

Samantha held her breath.  When she heard Charon’s next words, her gut clenched. 

“Yes, Master.”

“Well now,” Autumn murmured, even more quiet.  “Isn’t that interesting.”  And he smiled again, that genial , charming smile.  He took a step back, and swept his gaze over the two of them.

“We need to have a little discussion, the three of us, but this is hardly the best place to conduct it.  If you will do me the honor, young miss, of accompanying me up to my office?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked.

Autumn's smile broadened. "Oh, we _all_ have choices, young miss," he said. "Except maybe for your ghoulish friend there.In this case, however, I think you will find that agreeing to come with me of your own free will is much preferable to the alternative.” 




Samantha’s lips flattened.  “Fine.”

“I thought you’d say that.”  He shifted his gaze to Charon.  Charon had not moved, but was watching Autumn intently.  She saw his jawline tighten.  “Charon.  Get your weapons and come along with us, please.”

Charon nodded, and Samantha’s heart sank even further at his reply. 

“As you command, Master.”

[*]

Autumn dismissed his guards as soon as they cleared the armory, saying genially, “Run along, boys—you won’t be necessary.”  The two Tesla-armor-clad forms had exchanged a glance, but had done as they said.  It was on the tip of Samantha’s tongue to ask Autumn why in the world he was so trusting of her, but she refrained; an idea had occurred to her that made her so uneasy she didn’t dare put it into words.  Her eyes strayed to Charon, who had fallen in behind and to the left of Autumn.

 _Perhaps,_ she thought, _he has all the guards he needs right with him._    She swallowed.

Charon was totally silent as they followed Autumn up to his office.  He did not speak to Samantha, nor did he spare her so much as a glance.  It was as if he had completely dismissed her from his consciousness, as if she had ceased to exist for him.  All his attention was focused on Autumn.  _His new master,_ Samantha thought, and shivered.  The tension had gone from Charon’s body; he strode along at Autumn’s back with his usual economy of movement, as if he had done nothing else his whole life.  The change in his demeanor was so profound that Samantha scarcely knew what to think about it…indeed, thinking about it at all unnerved her greatly.

 _He wouldn’t…_   She didn’t know how to finish that thought.

Autumn had taken over a room on the top floor of the building, in the office suite; it was the largest one in the building, with a bank of windows that looked out over the ruined Wasteland.  The rest of the factory was still filled with the litter and trash of two hundred years, but Autumn’s office had been thoroughly cleaned and furnished; a shining mahogany desk had been rescued from somewhere, only slightly gouged, along with several comfortable-looking padded chairs and a lush, if somewhat soiled Persian carpet.  An old refrigerator hummed in one corner and a fire crackled in a steel drum, chasing back the early spring chill and lending a false note of cheeriness to the room.  Autumn took a seat behind the desk.

“Charon.  Be so kind as to close the door, will you?”

“As you command, Master,” Charon replied, and went to do so.  The click of the door sounded horribly final to Samantha in her overly-stressed state.  _Here I am, trapped in this room with a man who is in no way my friend,_ she thought.  _With two men who are not my friends_ tried to surface, but Samantha ruthlessly tamped it down.  She fixed her eyes on Autumn instead.

 Autumn regarded her for a moment, taking her in from the tip of her stolen Enclave boots to the top of her blonde, messily coiled hair.  His stare was unblinking, lizardlike.  Then he smiled, as charmingly as if he were meeting the daughter of an old friend.  “Well, well, well,” he said.  “The great Samantha herself.  I must say, I have been wantin to meet you for quite some time now.  All the reports I hear of you make you out to be a most exceptional  young lady.  Why, what is it that man on GNR calls you? ‘The Last Best Hope of Humanity?’”

“You’ve been listening to Three Dog?”  Samantha blurted out.  She couldn’t repress a grimace.  _Great, even the Enclave knows that stupid title.  Thanks a lot, Three Dog._

"Of course, of course," Autumn said, waving one hand airily. "Quite well-informed, he is—and entertaining as well! You know, I'm really lookin forward to the day we finally manage to track him down—he sounds like such an interesting young man. I'd love to have a nice long chat with him." He paused, eyeing her speculatively.“I don’t suppose you’d happen to have any idea about where he’s at?”




 Samantha’s heart beat faster.  Her palms felt slippery.  “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” she bluffed.  Her mouth was as dry as a desert.  _All he has to do is ask Charon…._ She fought to keep her eyes from straying toward the ghoul.

Autumn chuckled. "That's about what I thought you'd say. Well, don't worry. We'll find Three Dog all in good time. But I didn't get you up here to talk about him. No, I'm afraid the purpose of this friendly chat is something a bit different." He folded his hands before him on the shining surface of the desk and regarded her again, with that same unblinking stare.Samantha felt herself squirm.




“What do you want, Autumn?” she demanded, swallowing again.

“Straight to the point.  I like that,” Autumn said, chuckling again.  “I always appreciate a bright youngster like yourself who knows how to speak her mind.  You are aware, of course, of the Enclave’s interest in your late father’s work?”

“You mean Project Purity?”  Her heart was pounding in her chest.  Whether with fear or with rage, Samantha couldn’t have told.  “You mean the project that my father _sacrificed his life_ to keep from falling into your hands?  _That_ project?”

“The very same.”  Autumn nodded.  “Your father was a brilliant man, though sadly misguided.  Well, even brilliant men can be mistaken.  What we want is nothing less than what your father wanted:  clean, pure water for everyone in the Capital Wasteland.  The only difference is, unlike your father, we have the means and the resources to actually achieve this vision.”

“Bullshit,” Samantha spat.  Her hands opened and closed into fists.  “You want clean water for everyone in the Capital Wasteland—and _extermination_ for those who don’t meet your standards of purity.  You want to purge the Wasteland of _everyone_ whose genetic code has been damaged—which is just about every living being in the Wasteland.  That’s what you gave me the vial of the Forced Evolutionary Virus for—“

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, young lady,” Autumn said calmly.  “That was the late President John Henry Eden’s vision, not mine.  It was one of the many, many things that we did not see eye to eye about—or rather, eye to optic sensor,” he added.  “But as you well know, President Eden is no longer a factor—for which, I add, I must thank you, young miss.  I’m in command of the Enclave forces now, and what _I_ want is to bring your father’s life work to fruition.  Nothing more, nothing less.  You have my word.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?” he asked, shrugging.  “It wasn’t _I_ who gave you the vial of modified FEV to add to the water supply—that was President Eden, now deceased.  I believe even he told you of our disagreement, did he not?”  As Samantha hesitated, he pressed on, “I understand that you may have some animosity toward me from the circumstances of your father’s death.  That’s perfectly natural, of course.  But what I would suggest you ask yourself, young lady, is whether that animosity is enough to warrant standing in the way of the completion of your father’s vision.”

“Cut the crap and just tell me what you want,” Samantha snapped.

Autumn chuckled again.  Samantha thought that that chuckle sounded about as real as a three-dollar pre-war bill.  “What we want.  Yes.  Well, as you know, young lady, the Enclave currently has what is left of your father’s project in its hands.  We have the Jefferson Memorial with its water purifier, and we have the G.E.C.K.—the Garden of Eden Creation Kit, which you were so kind as to retrieve for us from Vault 87.”  Samantha clenched her fists, but said nothing.  “What we _don’t_ have is the code necessary to work the machine.  Furthermore, your father left quite a number of failsafes, ensuring that if we try to input the wrong code, or to input the right code in the wrong way, the machine will lock us out.  Now, we have our computer scientists working on the problem—rest assured, we will unlock the code eventually—but it would be much quicker and easier to get it from you, young lady.”  He smiled again.  Samantha ground her teeth.

“What makes you think I have it?” she challenged.  “I’d never even heard of this Project Purity until I escaped from the Vault a few months ago, and I only caught up with  my father a couple of days before you killed him.”

“Again, he killed himself, young miss,” Autumn corrected her gently.  “And I would advise against you playing foolish.  It isn’t likely to lead to anything good for you in the long run.”

“I’m serious, I don’t have it!” Samantha insisted, wiping her hands against her legs.  “Dad never told it to me.”

Autumn sighed.  “Now, that’s not very friendly, missy.  It’s not very friendly at all.  I must say, I’m disappointed.  You’re a bright young lady, surely you can see where your own self-interest lies.  Surely it would be better—not just for you, but for the Capital Wasteland—if you were to give us the code—”

“I can’t give you something I don’t have!” Samantha protested.  “If you want I could make something up, I guess, but I _can’t_ give you the real code. Dad never told it to me.  He never had the chance.  Ask—“  Samantha cast about her.  “Ask Charon if you want,” she dared, her eyes coming to rest on the rotted ghoul standing by the door.  “He was there for the whole thing.  He’ll tell you.  Charon, did Dad ever tell me the code?”  

Charon gave her a slow, impassive glance, then turned his full attention back to Colonel Autumn.  He did not acknowledge her presence in any other way.  Samantha cursed silently.  _Charon—_

Colonel Autumn looked back and forth between the two of them, and then smiled again.  “Ah. Yes.  Charon.”  Purposefully changing the subject, he continued, “He is quite a find, I must admit.  I must ask you, young lady:  How did you come by him?”

“Why do you care?” Samantha snapped back.

“Well, I was just wondering if you fully appreciated what it was that you had here.”  Autumn rose from his desk and came forward to stand in front of Charon, sweeping his gaze over the ghoul.  Charon did not react, but simply stood calmly under Autumn’s scrutiny.  “Do you even know what he is?”

Samantha felt herself flush.  “He’s my friend,” she said sharply.  “That’s all that matters.”  _Isn’t he?_   She glanced over at him again, but Charon said nothing.

Autumn gave her a look.  “Oh, but it isn’t.  He may—or may not—be your friend, young lady, but he is also a great deal more.  In fact I’ve had my eye out for one of his kind for as long as I’ve been aware of their existence—and that’s been quite a while.  I never thought I’d find one.”

“What do you mean?”

Autumn paused and rocked back on his heels, clasping his hands behind him.  Charon was almost a head taller than he was; Autumn had to look up to examine him.  The Enclave officer stepped back and turned toward Samantha.  “Charon,” he said, as if discussing the qualifications of a fine thoroughbred Brahmin steer, “is one of a—shall we say, very _unusual_ group of people.  They are not of the Enclave’s making, but we know quite a bit about them and have even made use of them in the past.  Suffice it to say that the…organization…that created Charon was dedicated to making the perfect soldier—one who would obey _any_ order given to him.  Or her; there were some women included in their experiments as well, though not many.  Eventually, they succeeded—some might say, a bit too well.  Certainly a bit too well for their _own_ good.”  Here Autumn chuckled, as if at a particularly amusing memory.

Samantha’s eyes darted from Autumn to Charon.  Charon’s flayed features could have been carved from stone; his eyes were locked on the Enclave officer.  Even as Colonel Autumn continued to speak about him as if he were not present, Charon’s face never changed.  Perhaps the pulse in his throat beat a bit faster, but that was all.

“To my knowledge, there are very few of his kind left,” Autumn went on, rather admiringly.  “In fact, Charon may actually be the _only_ one, which of course makes him all the more valuable.  Natural attrition has taken its toll, of course, but so have the rigors of combat.  Charon and those like him _must_ obey _any_ order given them by the one who holds their contract—no matter how reckless, stupid, or suicidal—and in the hands of those who did not know how to use what they had, this led to truly appalling casualty rates.  You are to be commended, young miss, for taking such good care of him during the time you held his contract.”  Charon said nothing, listening impassively.  “However, his contract is now in our hands, not yours, and believe me when I say we know how to value such an asset.”  He turned to regard Charon again, with a look of shrewd appraisal; the ghoul remained silent.

Samantha swallowed, a chill going down her spine.  “Charon—“ she began.  “Charon, don’t—don’t listen to him.  You don’t have to do what he says—“

"Ah, but he does," Autumn corrected her. "His own nature will not permit him to do otherwise. It is truly an admirable thing. The most effective means of control are always internal, would you not agree? And in Charon and those like him, they run so deep that they can never be dislodged." He paused. "Permit me to provide a small demonstration, if you will. Charon," he turned to address the ghoul.“Do you know that young lady there?”




“Yes, master,” the ghoul replied.

“Who is she?”

Charon turned to look at her.  Samantha could read nothing on those rotted features.  “She is my former mistress.”

Autumn nodded.  “Good.  Charon, would you please hit her?”

Samantha gasped.  _He wouldn’t do it….would he?_

Charon regarded her impassively for a moment.  “Where would you like me to hit her, Master?”

“In the face, if you please.”

“And how hard?”

Autumn smiled.  “Hard enough to make a point, but not so hard as to do any lasting damage.  There’s no need for that sort of thing—at least, not yet.”

“As you command, Master,” Charon replied, in the same inflectionless tone he had always used to speak those words to her.  He turned and began to advance on her purposefully.

 _He’s not going to do it,_ Samantha breathed to herself.  _He’s not going to.  He’s not—_   Charon drew back his hand, and a stinging blow caught her high on the cheekbone; her head snapped to the side and her eyes watered.  It took her a moment to come back to herself.

“You _bastard,_ ” she snarled when her head cleared.  She was not looking at Charon.

Autumn smiled again.  “That’s as may be.  Take her below, Charon, to the holding cells on the ground floor.  I believe our ‘Last, Best Hope for Humanity’ needs some time to think.”

“As you command.”  Charon gripped her arm.  There was no anger in his touch, no hostility—just a terrible strength, an intent of purpose that would not be denied.  Samantha stared up at him, searching his decaying features, but he met her gaze calmly; she saw nothing in his deceptively mild eyes.  She couldn’t suppress a shiver as he escorted her out of the room.

[*]

Samantha was silent as Charon propelled her down the stairs and along the concrete-floored corridor.  Fear stilled her tongue—not so much for herself, strangely enough, but for her friend.  For as bad as her position was— _and there’s no doubt it’s bad_ —she was smart enough to recognize that in some ways, Charon’s position was much, much worse.

She could have kicked herself for not taking better care of his contract.  Useless now to protest that she simply hadn’t thought of it; she _should_ have thought of it.  It was her responsibility.  _I should have sat him down and grilled him about it right from the start—he was absolutely right, I took for granted what I was getting from him and never bothered to ask what he needed from me._   She knew why she hadn’t done that—in those first days, so long ago, she had been somewhat intimidated by her tall, silent ghoul follower; even more so because of what he had done to Ahzrukhal immediately after his contract had passed to her, and then as time had gone on and the two of them had developed their working relationship it had simply never seemed to come up.  But that was no excuse. She had been negligent and now both of them were going to pay for it.   _A little bit of forethought and maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation now._

The jail cells were underneath the factory, on the opposite end from the armory; a large room had been subdivided into compartments by the addition of steel bars and mesh.  As Charon was locking her into one of them, she looked up at him.  “Charon,” she said quietly, “you _don’t_ have to do what he says.  You really don’t.  You know that, don’t you?”

Charon looked down at her through the bars.  Something flickered in those filmy eyes.  When he spoke, his voice was strangely… _gentle?_  “You should not have lost my contract, Samantha.”

Then he was gone, leaving her to slump down against the damp concrete wall.  She ran her hands through her hair.  _What are we going to do?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

After locking Samantha in her cell, Charon returned to the side of his new master.  The holder of his contract was talking to an Enclave officer, but glanced up as the ghoul came to him.  “Ah, Charon.  I trust our guest is secure.”

“I have done as you commanded, Master,” Charon responded.  “Have you any other orders for me?”

“Not right now, Charon, but wait here.  Something may come up.”

“As you command, Master.”

He did not trust the Enclave officer, he realized.  Of course, of all the previous owners of his contract, the ones whom he had fully trusted....had there been any?

 _Autumn is using me as a tool,_ Charon reflected.  _That is how he sees me._ Why this should be significant to him in any way, he could not have said; Ahzrukhal had also used him as a tool, as indeed had most of his previous masters.  Samantha was perhaps the first holder of his contract not to use him that way—not to _see_ him that way.  _She said it herself, more than once; that she saw me as a ‘friend.’  And she was wrong to do so._   Charon _was_ a tool and nothing more; he had always known it and accepted it.  It was the essence of his being, him and those like him; that was what they were _for,_ or had been: to be employed as the holders of their contracts saw fit.  His former mistress’s attempts to treat him as something other had been rather unsettling, at least at first.  Charon had not known how to deal with her overtures, nor what her requirements for him would be; the role of “friend” was not one for which he had been trained, nor one that he had had a great deal of experience in fulfilling, and its amorphous, unbounded nature meant that it was very difficult for him to learn.  He had been constantly on edge, especially in the early days, trying to guess what Samantha wanted of him, and had found himself resenting her at times, for asking him to be something for which he was not equipped. _What do you **want** from me?_ he had dreamed of demanding of her more than once.  And of course, she would never just _tell_ him what she wanted, no; probably because she herself was unsure.  _But how am I supposed to anticipate my mistress’s wishes when she does not know them herself?_  

Anyway it was of no consequence now.  He could already tell that with Autumn, he would need to do nothing but follow orders, as he was accustomed to.  Better to be simply a tool again.  _Easier, certainly._   _Perhaps it is for the best that my contract changed possession._ Yet even as he thought that, his hand tingled again, and he unobtrusively wiped it against his thigh.

He had been so lost in thought that he had at first not noticed Autumn regarding him with that genial smile.  He came back to himself with a nasty shock.  “Master?”

Autumn tilted his head.  “You know, Charon,” he said conversationally, “I get the feelin you don’t like me very much.”

“Whether I ‘like’ you or not is irrelevant, Master,” Charon responded slowly, collecting his thoughts.  He had been asked this question before and had always given this same answer; the familiarity of the exchange helped to ground him.  “You are the holder of my contract, and I must obey you without question.”

“Now I _know_ you don’t like me.”  Autumn paused, his smile broadening.  Charon shifted uneasily, discomforted by the way Autumn seemed to probe into his inner thoughts.  “You know, I’ve made a study of your…group of people, Charon.”

He seemed to be looking for a reaction.  Charon said nothing. 

“To tell the truth, I’ve actually been quite fascinated by you and yours for some time.  Is it true what they say—the stories about the training you all went through?”

“I do not know, Master,” Charon said.  “I do not know what the stories say.”  _There.  Safe enough._ The indoctrination process was something he did not wish to discuss.  He did not want to talk about that time, he did not want to be reminded of it, he did not want to _think_ about it, ever again.And he certainly did not want to discuss it with this smiling Enclave officer whose first order had been for him to strike his previous mistress.  He tensed, trying to anticipate the next question.

Autumn laughed again.  “Of course not, of course not.  Well, no matter.  But it _is_ true, is it not, that you will obey _any_ order given you by the holder of your contract?”

“That is correct.”

“So, for example, if I were to order you to execute our lovely young guest down in the holding cells, you would have no problem with doing that?”

Autumn was watching him very closely.  The genial twinkle was still in his eye, but it had shifted somehow—no longer quite so jolly, but more menacing instead.  Charon carefully schooled his features to neutrality.  Sweat prickled on what remained of his skin.

“If that is your order to me, then I will obey.”

“Ah, but that wasn’t what I asked.”  Charon distantly wondered how Autumn could be showing that many teeth and still not have it look like a recognizable smile.  “I _asked_ if you would have a _problem_ with doing so.  Are the two of you close, Charon?  Would executing her cause you any great distress?”

“She was my mistress.  You are my master.  It is you who I am bound to obey.”  Charon put his hand on the stock of his weapon.  “ _Is_ that your order to me, Master?”

Autumn sighed ruefully.  “Well, that lovely young guest of ours is a problem, I must admit.”  He shook his head.  “If she continues to be stubborn like she’s doin now, well, there’s no tellin _what_ I might have to do.  No, Charon,” he said, and Charon relaxed a bit.  “I don’t want you to execute her—not yet at least.  But, I do fear that that if she continues not to see reason, I may be forced to take…extraordinary measures.”

Autumn looked sideways at him.  Charon was careful to remain expressionless, taking refuge in a simple “As you command, Master.”

The Enclave officer nodded.  “Good….good.  That’s what I like to hear, Charon.”  He paused, regarding Charon.  “I daresay we’ll get on very well together, you and I.”

“As you say,” Charon replied.  His hand tingled again, and he scrubbed at it futilely.

[*]

There were no windows to the outside world; Samantha could not watch the sun climb in the sky over her head.  If it were not for her Pip-Boy, she would have had no way to tell how much time was passing.  She could see it had only been five or six hours since Charon had locked her in.  _Not that long._ But it felt like _years._

She passed her time fretting about her follower.  **_Former_** _follower,_ she corrected herself, shivering a bit.  _The moment Autumn showed Charon he had his contract, it was like I stopped existing for him._ Of course, given what Charon had done to Ahzrukhal, she supposed she had gotten off easy.  Her thoughts chased each other, restless.   _I thought we were **friends….** I could have **sworn** it…was I really that wrong?_  

Maybe she had been.  She curled one palm around the cold iron bars, remembering the shocked outcry in the Ninth Circle after Charon had shot Ahzrukhal:  _“I always thought Charon **liked** Ahzrukhal…”_   _I wonder if that should have been my warning,_ she mused.  _Ahzrukhal had no idea either._   The bar owner had never seen it coming.  His last words to Charon had been asking if Charon had come to say goodbye….

 _I should have dumped his contract off right there._ She leaned her forehead against the bars, telling herself the thought was uncharitable; after all, Charon had served her faithfully ever since she had become his employer.  He had saved her life more times than she could count, he had….

 _Yes, but he didn’t do any of that because he actually cared about you,_ some part of her said coldly.  _He did it because you held his contract.  That is the only reason why._

“No,” Samantha muttered, leaning her head against the bars.  “No, that’s not true.  Charon—I would trust him with my life, I know it.  He’s my friend—he would never harm me under ordinary circumstances—“

 _It doesn’t matter,_ that part of her argued.  _A man who can do something like what Charon did with Ahzrukhal—who can serve someone for years without ever giving any clue that he’s planning to kill him—is a man who inherently cannot be trusted. That **was** your warning, right there.  The minute you saw that, you should have unloaded his contract immediately. And after seeing that, you are **surprised** at how things turned out?_

Again, she knew she was being unjust.  Charon had not turned on her out of spite, or anger; he had turned on her because she had been foolish enough to lose his contract, and they both had been unlucky enough to have Autumn pick it up.  She knew better than to expect him to go against his contract-- _but still, I would have hoped_ ….

She sighed, closing her eyes.  _Is there **anything** I can say to reach him? _

Finally, after an indeterminate length of time, Samantha heard footsteps coming down the iron stairs above her head.  She straightened up at once, wondering if it was him coming for her, trying to think of what she might be able to say to convince him. 

Her hopes were dashed as two Tesla-armor-clad guards came down the staircase, their metal-shod footsteps ringing.  They unlocked the door and rolled it back with a great _clannnggg,_ then took her roughly by the arms.

“Where are we going?” she asked, though again she did not resist.

One of them looked down at her.  His voice crackled with static through his helmet, not hostile, but brusque.  _“Colonel Autumn wants you brought to his office.  Looks like your time is up.”_

A chill ran down Samantha’s spine.  She tried to steel herself as the soldiers escorted her from her cell, conveying her up the winding metal stairs and into the office section of the factory.  _I won’t give him the code,_ she thought to herself resolutely.  _No matter what he threatens—no matter what he **does** to me.  I won’t betray Dad that way. _

She was no little girl, she thought to herself as the soldiers paused before the frosted glass door, rapping to announce their presence.  She had been hurt before—had felt pain before.  Her chest still ached from the plasma burst she had taken earlier, reminding her that she knew how to suffer and endure.  Nobody could wander the Wastelands for very long and not suffer injury.  As the soldiers swung the door open in response to Autumn’s commands and marched her through, Samantha summoned her resolve.  _Do your worst,_ she silently told Colonel Autumn, eyeing him as he stood behind his desk with his hands clasped behind his back and the sun’s rays blazing in corona behind him.  _I will never give you what you want.  Never._

“Thank you both kindly,” Autumn said to his soldiers.  “You can go now—you won’t be needed.”   As the soldiers made their exit, Autumn faced Samantha.  “So, young miss.  You’ve had some time to think it over.  Now, I’m afraid I’m going to be needing your answer. Are you willing to help us?”




Samantha glowered at him defiantly.  She could see Charon off to his side, but her former follower let his eyes slide over her without recognition.  _No help there._ The room looked the same as it had before, save for the angle of the sun; her eyes took in the desk , the ragged carpet on the floor, the cracked windows, the bookcases half-filled with burned and ruined books….the steel fire drum….

 _No,_ she thought to herself.  _There’s the difference._   The fire still crackled in the drum, but a number of long iron bars had been added, resting in the heart of the fire.  They were glowing a sullen red.  Samantha’s heart stopped at the sight.

Autumn saw her looking.  “Yes, missy,” he said quietly.  “The time is very rapidly approaching.  I would prefer to use gentle persuasion, but…”  He let his words trail off.   “I appeal now, young miss, to your better nature.  Help us, and help yourself at the same time. You’d be helping us bring clean, pure, drinkable water to all the denizens of the Capital Wasteland, and you’d be helpin me at the same time by allowin me to avoid something I would strongly prefer not to do.”




Samantha’s mouth was so dry she had to lick her lips to allow herself to speak.  “Go to hell,” she spat, hearing her voice shake.

Autumn looked at her sorrowfully.  “Are you sure that’s your answer?  Look at it this way,” he told her.  “Your father’s dead.  I regret that greatly, but there’s nothing I can do to change that.  But his _dream_ —that doesn’t have to die with him.  You know the Enclave is the only force in the entire Wasteland with the power to make that dream a reality.  We’re here, we’re ready, we’re willin—all we need is the code, which you have.   His dream can live on.  Your father’s dream can live on, Samantha,” he insisted.  “With you.”

“I’d rather die than help you, Autumn,” she snarled.

Autumn’s sorrowing expression deepened.  “Samantha, how can your dislike of us justify depriving the inhabitants of the Wasteland of clean water?  That bright young man Three Dog called you the Last, Best Hope of Humanity—don’t you think it’s time you started living up to that?  Now, purifyin the water of the Wasteland— _that_ would truly be a feat worthy of that title.”

“I never _asked_ for that title,” Samantha shot back.  “And I’m sure that if Three Dog learned that I was helping you, he’d take it back just as readily as he gave it.  Give up, Autumn.  There’s nothing you can say or do that will make me give you the code.”  Her eyes wandered to the red-hot iron bars, and she swallowed.  _“Nothing,_ ” she repeated, trying to stiffen her resolve.

Autumn regarded her for a moment longer, then gave a heavy sigh.  “Very well.  If that’s the way you want it.”  He folded his hands on the desk top.  “I was hopin that it wouldn’t come to this, young lady, but your intransigence has forced my hand. Please understand that I take no pleasure in any of this.  If you had only been willing to listen to reason, all this unpleasantness could have been avoided—“

If her mouth weren’t so dry, Samantha would have spit.  She forced her eyes away from the bright fire in the drum.  “ _Reason?_ Hah.  Do your worst, Autumn.  It won’t help you.  There’s nothing you can do to me that can make me betray my father’s memory.”  She snarled the words, and devoutly hoped they were true.

The Enclave officer raised an eyebrow.  “I wasn’t planning on doing anything to you.”

Samantha gasped.  Her whole body tingled, then went numb with horror.  For suddenly, as she stared into Autumn’s eyes, she _knew_ what he was going to do.

 “Charon,” Autumn said casually.  “Do you see those bars lyin in the coals there?”

“Yes, Master.”  Samantha’s eyes flew to the ghoul, but Charon’s expression was inscrutable.

“Reach into the coals with your hands and pick one of them up, please.”

“With one hand or with both hands?”  Charon spoke as calmly as if he were inquiring about the weather.

“With both hands.”

“As you command, Master.”

Samantha’s mouth had gone completely dry.  She was frozen in utter horror, helpless even to cry out in protest.  She could only watch as Charon advanced on the fire with the same purposeful strides as he had used earlier, when Autumn had ordered him to hit her.  Perhaps there was a slight hesitation as he approached the drum, but only a slight one, barely even perceptible.  “ _No,_ ” Samantha whispered helplessly, then as he actually reached into the coals, she screamed it:  _“No!”_

There was a sharp sizzle.  The acrid reek of burning flesh filled the air as Charon lifted out the red-hot, glowing iron bar.  His expression did not change.  Only a muscle quivered along his jawline, and there was a light trembling in his arms as he held the bar out, away from him—no more.  He made not a sound, bearing the pain in silence.




 “Charon, _stop!”_ Samantha screamed, frantic.  “ _Charon, **stop!!**_ ”  She swung toward Autumn.  “Okay, you win!  I give up!  I’ll tell you anything, just _make him **STOP!!**_ ”

Autumn merely nodded.  “Very good.  Charon, you may put that down now.”

Charon dropped the glowing bar so quickly that he had to step back, or it would have taken off his toes.  The worn, frayed carpet beneath began to scorch and smolder almost instantly; Colonel Autumn caught up a bucket of water at hand, and doused the iron.  Steam hissed and filled the air.  Charon stood motionless, but flexed his fingers slightly— _very_ slightly—carefully keeping his hands away from his sides.   His jaw was set, tense; he seemed to be grinding his teeth together.

“Now, missy, you see the kind of game we are playing here.”  Autumn regarded her.  “What is the code?” he asked, almost off-handedly.

“21:6,” Samantha responded at once.  Her eyes were on Charon.  “It’s from Revelations--my mother’s favorite Bible verse.”

“Thank you kindly, young miss.   I knew you could be reasonable.   Charon,” Autumn said, addressing himself to the ghoul again.  “Take our guest below and dispose of her. Have your hands seen to and return here.”




“As you command, Master.”  Charon’s voice was thin and strained.  He turned toward his former mistress, and Samantha saw the tension in his shoulders as he reached out to grip her.  The trails of smoke from his hands made her want to be sick.  She evaded him.

“Don’t.  I’ll go quietly.  I promise.”  He nodded, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction.  Samantha glared at Autumn through eyes blurred by tears.  “You _son of a bitch._ ”

“And a pleasant day to you too, young lady,” Autumn replied, smiling.  She followed Charon from the room.

[*]

 Samantha couldn’t see the stairs; the tears in her eyes were blinding her.  She tripped on one of the metal steps and almost fell, throwing herself against the wall at the last moment so that Charon wouldn’t have to try and catch her.

“Charon—“ she breathed as soon as they were out of sight and earshot of Autumn’s office.  “God, Charon, let me see your _hands—_ “   She reached out, grasping Charon’s forearm.  He jerked away roughly.

“No.”  The word sounded like two stones scraping.  He was flexing his fingers again, gingerly; they curled a bit more this time, but his mouth twitched in a grimace.  She could see by his short, jerky movements that he was in a great deal of pain.  He turned toward her, wincing.  “You must come.  Autumn has ordered me to dispose of you, and I must do so.”

Samantha had just witnessed an object lesson in how well Charon followed orders; she stepped back at once, sizing him up.  Her chest still ached, but she was unrestrained and Charon was injured.  Still, she wouldn’t have given herself even odds.  “Charon,” she said slowly, trying to edge out of his longer reach, “if you think I’m just going to stand still and let you kill me without a fight—“

Charon’s face twitched again; something like a snarl leapt across his decayed features.  “ _Come,_ ” he ground out.

She stared at him for a long moment, trying to read that ruined face.  After a long moment, she gulped and nodded.  “All right.”

Without further ado, Charon turned on his heel and stalked off, with short, tight strides.  Samantha trotted after him, wondering if she were sealing her own doom thereby.  Charon was moving so quickly she could hardly keep up with him; if he had wanted to do her harm, nearly leaving her behind was a strange way to go about it, she tried to reassure herself.

Instead of shooting her in the head, Charon simply led her back to her cell, swinging the door open and locking her in somewhat clumsily, turning the key with the tips of his fingers.  He paused a moment and looked down at her through the bars; she could not read his expression and had no idea what he was thinking.  “Charon…?” she asked.




He did not reply.  Instead he retreated, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls and steel flooring.  Samantha watched him go until he disappeared around a corner.  _Dispose,_ she thought to herself.  _Autumn said “dispose.”  He didn’t say “kill.”_

The echoes of Charon’s footsteps faded in the distance.  Samantha slid down the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees, settling onto the cold, damp floor.

 _Well, then, it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?_

 


	4. Chapter 4

There were moments, not many, when Charon felt fortunate to be a ghoul; now was one such.  After he had closed Samantha in her cell, he had gone, as per his orders, to the Enclave doctors to have his hands seen to.  If he had been a smoothskin, he knew that there would have been nothing the doctors could do for him, save perhaps to ease his pain a bit; his hands would have been crippled and useless till the end of his days.  But because he was a ghoul, there was hope.  The doctor he had seen had wrapped his hands in yards of bandages, with a cluster of radioactive pellets nestled in the center of each of his charred palms.  The radiation from the pellets would stimulate his flesh to repair itself, she had explained; Charon would have a few weeks of discomfort, but in the end his hands should be as good as new.

 _Discomfort._   Charon flexed his hands gingerly, gritting his teeth at the pain.  His very _bones_ seemed to be itching from the radiation.  The sensation was unpleasantly like what he remembered of the initial stages of his change, and he had to fight to keep himself from tearing the bandages off.  Instead, he flexed his hands again and thought about the man who had done this to him. 

 _Colonel Augustus Autumn._

 _She capitulated immediately,_ Charon thought, and the raw panic in her voice rang again in his mind.  He had observed his former mistress long enough by now to know that there was almost nothing else Autumn could have done that could have caused her to give in, let alone so quickly.  _Yet she did.  She gave in at once.  To … spare … me._ He rolled the thought around in his head. 

During indoctrination, he would have been instructed to view that as weakness.

Charon carefully flexed his fingers one more time, and thought of his current master. 

[*]

Colonel Autumn was still at his desk when Charon returned to him, looking over some files at a portable terminal; he did not bother to look up as Charon entered.  The irons, Charon noted, had been removed from the drum; his jaw tightened as he saw that.  Autumn gestured Charon to stand by his side, tapping on the keyboard for a moment longer, then glanced over at him briefly.

“You have disposed of your former mistress?”  The comment was off-handed, seemingly careless.  Not a word about his injury, Charon thought.

“Yes, Master.”

“Good.”  Autumn returned his gaze to the screen, continuing to type rapidly.  “She is dead then?”  he murmured.  Charon could not keep himself from tensing.

 “No, Master.”

Autumn spared him another apparently brief glance.  “No?”  Again, he sounded calm, trivial, even; but Charon could hear the danger lurking beneath the mild tone.  He drew a breath.

“Your orders were ‘to dispose of her,’ Master.  You did not say ‘kill.’  I returned her to her cell, on the understanding that if you wished her dead, she could easily be killed later; however, if you wished her alive, her death would be less easy to rectify.”

“Ah, I see.  Good thinking, Charon.”  Autumn returned his gaze to the screen in front of him, apparently satisfied.  “I should have made clear to you what I wanted done with her. Unfortunately for her, our young guest is of no further use to me; and while she remains alive, she provides a rallying point for our enemies.   Go below and shoot her, Charon. Can you do that?”




Autumn’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, flat and evaluative; then the expression was gone, so rapidly that Charon could not be sure it had ever been there.  He swallowed, feeling cold sweat prickle on what remained of his skin.  There was only one answer he could make.

“As you command, Master.”

He had been given an order; he turned, and made for the door.  He was touching the knob when Autumn spoke again, behind him.  “Oh, and Charon?”

Charon halted, and turned, to find Autumn watching him with that same, flat, shark-like stare.  “The next time you come back up those stairs, she had better be dead.”

“As you command,” Charon replied again, and made his escape.

[*]

The cell seemed even darker, danker, and colder this time around.  Samantha sat slouched against the wall in the farthest corner away from the bars, where the shadows clustered the most thickly; somehow, she thought with a sardonic twist to her mouth, the gloom suited her mood.  With a groan, she rolled her head back against the damp concrete behind her.

 _We have to get out of here.  Both of us._ Now that the Enclave had what it needed from her, there was absolutely no reason in the world for them to keep her alive.  That they hadn’t killed her yet was simply a matter of time.  _And Charon—_   Her heart quailed within her.  Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the scene again, as if it were permanently etched on her brain:  Charon, his hands wrapped around the glowing iron bar, his patchwork arms rigid and trembling, the cords on his decayed neck standing out from the pain….

 _That son of a bitch.  There was no **reason** for him to do that._ She could feel her fury rising at the thought of Autumn.  _All he had to do was **threaten** Charon.  It would have done the same thing._   She ran her hands over her face, wishing she could erase the memory that simply.  _He just wanted to see if Charon would actually **do** it, that’s all.  _ She had not missed the gleam of satisfaction in Autumn’s eyes as he had watched the ghoul reach into the fire.  _I’ve got to get Charon away from Autumn.  But how?_   If escaping herself seemed impossible, retrieving Charon’s contract would be doubly so.

Samantha heaved a huge sigh and leaned forward to rest her head on her knees.  Her mind clattered restlessly around in circles, like a rat trapped in a maze, seeking a way out of her predicament.  She gripped her head with her hands, running them through her hair and trying desperately to _think._




Echoing footsteps coming down the corridor jerked her out of her reverie.  Samantha scrambled to her feet, setting her back against the stained cement wall behind her and peering down the hallway.  It was with a sinking feeling of familiarity that she recognized Charon’s tall form emerging from the shadows.  _I’m betting he hasn’t come to rescue me this time either,_ she thought grimly.  _Looks like my time’s up._

“Charon?” she tried as the ghoul approached.  That decayed face turned her way briefly, then Charon bent his head to fumble with the cell’s lock.  Peripherally, Samantha noticed that his hands were wrapped in white bandages.  “Charon, what—what are you doing?”

“Following my orders.”   The cell door swung open.  Charon stepped inside, and an icy wave washed over Samantha as he took his shotgun from his back.  Her heart seemed to stop within her.  Charon raised his weapon and sighted along it; the dark opening at the end of the shotgun swung toward her. Samantha stood, frozen.




“Ch—Charon,” she heard herself stammer through numb lips.  The wall was cold behind her; she could feel the roughness of the concrete beneath her splayed fingers.  “Charon, you don’t—you d-don’t have to d-do this.  You—if you—“

“I _must._ ”  Charon’s jaw set, and even through her fear she could see a strange, mulish obstinacy in his eyes.  “I must follow my orders exactly as they are given to me.”  He adjusted his aim slightly, squinting down the barrel.  Samantha saw his filmy eye behind the gunsight, and knew she had never been closer to death.  “Samantha, I must ask you to stand very, very still.”

“Why?  So you c-can _shoot_ me better?” she challenged, desperately searching for some words, _any_ words to reach the relentless ghoul.  “Charon, I—I can’t _believe_ you’re going to—“

The ghoul raised his head.  “Samantha…please.  Do as I ask.”

Something in his grating voice caught at her.  Samantha stared at him for a long moment, desperately trying to gauge the expression on his rotted features.  There was something she could not quite identify in those faded eyes—a hint of pleading, perhaps?  She bit her lip.  _I must be crazy,_ she thought.  _This man is **pointing a gun** at me._  _Am I seriously thinking of trusting him?_  

At last she drew a long, shuddering breath.  “All right.”

Something flickered on his face, but she didn’t know what.  As Charon lowered his head to his gunsight again, Samantha couldn’t help but close her eyes, thinking of Ahzrukhal and wondering in some distant part of her mind if Charon had ever killed two of his previous masters in a row before.  She seemed to have moved to a place beyond fear; her heart hammered in her chest and her entire body was numb and tingling, yet she felt nothing.  She heard Charon cock the hammer of his shotgun.  _Well, Three Dog, looks like your “Last, Best Hope for Humanity” didn’t turn out to be such a great hope after all._   She had just enough time to wonder if there was a heaven like her mother had thought, and whether she would be reunited with her parents there, when she heard Charon’s gun go off.

The bang was deafening; the echoes rang off the walls.  Pain lanced into her, searing; Samantha heard herself cry out.  _So this is it.  This is what it feels like when you die…._

 _Wait._   She wasn’t dead.

Very carefully, Samantha opened her eyes.  Charon was returning his shotgun to its place at his back.  The burning pain had localized and concentrated itself on her left shoulder; looking down, she saw that the stolen Enclave coat was torn and stained with blood.  Moving the torn cloth out of the way, she saw a shallow, minor graze on her arm beneath.

“Charon…” she breathed, turning her attention back to the ghoul.  “What did you do?”

Charon’s jaw set.  “I followed my orders _exactly_ as they were given,” he repeated.  That obstinacy was back in his eyes, stronger than ever.  He swallowed a bit—she was surprised to see it, given his usual self-possession—and then raised his chin defiantly.  “My orders were to shoot you and not to come back up the stairs until you were dead.  Autumn said _nothing_ about killing you,” he insisted.  “I have shot you as commanded.  Therefore I _have_ fulfilled my orders.  Or—part of them, anyway.”  He moved to sit against the same wall where Samantha had been sitting earlier.  “Fulfilling the second part of them may take…some time.”  He slid down the wall to rest his hands on his knees.

Samantha blew out a long breath. She was almost shaky from relief.  “I should have trusted you,” she admitted.  Charon spared her a glance, then returned his gaze to the floor in front of him.  “Charon, you—“  She turned to stare at the still-open cell door.  “You didn’t lock the door,” she realized.

“My orders said nothing about locking the door,” Charon repeated doggedly, staring at the floor.  “I have followed my orders _exactly_ as given.” He glanced at her again.   “I must obey Colonel Autumn’s orders….for as long as he has my contract.”

Samantha drew a breath and nodded slowly.  “Did Autumn say anything about hanging on to your weapon?”

“No, he did not.”  Charon’s voice ground like metal on stone.  He laid his shotgun on the floor beside him.  His shoulders tightened as Samantha went to him and scooped it up, quickly checking to see that it was loaded.

“Thank you, Charon,” she told him quietly.  “I understand what you’re doing—“

“I am doing nothing,” Charon insisted.  “I am simply following my orders.  No more, no less.”  He never looked away from the ground in front of him.  His jaw set, and one white-bandaged fist clenched…loosely.  Sweat was beading on what remained of his skin.

“Still, I understand.”  Samantha shouldered Charon’s shotgun.  “Don’t worry, Charon,” she told him.  “I’ll be back before too long.”

Moving silently as she could, she slipped out of the cell and moved stealthily down the corridor.  Before she reached the stairs, she took a last glance behind her.  Charon was still sitting where she had left him, behind the bars of the cell, made small by distance.  His knees were drawn up in front of him; he had folded his arms across them and then laid his head on his arms, curling almost into a fetal ball.  Samantha bit her lip and wondered what it had cost the ghoul to do this. 

 _Don’t worry, Charon.  I’ll free you, just as you freed me.  I promise._

Quickly she started up the stairs.

[*]

Samantha’s footsteps receded down the hall, but Charon did not watch her go.  The wall was hard and cold at his back.  Charon buried his face against his arms, shutting out the world around him.  His breath was coming too quickly, and his heart was pounding in his chest.  Even the pain in his hands seemed distant.

 _I am following orders.  I **am,** _ he repeated to himself desperately.  The terrible unease was rising in him again, stronger and stronger, rapidly deepening into panic; it took every ounce of strength he had within him to hold it at bay.  _Colonel Autumn said in **exact words** : Go below and shoot her.  I have shot her.  He said, Do not return up those stairs until she is dead.  That is what he said.  That is what I have done, _he tried to justify.

 _Except that wasn’t what Autumn meant and you **know** it._

 _No,_ he tried to argue with himself desperately.  _How **can** I know what he meant?  I cannot take it upon myself to interpret.  It isn’t **my** fault that his orders were poorly worded._ _I have performed **exactly** as he ordered me.  _Charon seized on that idea, his his only defense against the black terror rising in him.  _I have performed as ordered.  I **have,**_ he insisted to himself.

 _When Autumn finds out, you’ll see whether or not he agrees with that._

Charon was shaking; his stomach was crawling and he swallowed hard.  Autumn would come soon, come soon and tell him that he _had disobeyed an order,_ and what would happen to him then?

“Shut up,” he muttered through his teeth, scarcely aware he spoke.  “ _Shut up._ I haven’t disobeyed.  It’s not my fault—it’s—I—“  He stammered, searching desperately for an excuse, any excuse to save him.  There was a thick fog of terror spreading across his mind, cutting out all possibility of rational thought.  _You disobeyed an order.  You disobeyed.  You disobeyed…._

He buried his face against his knees. The question he had been asking himself earlier echoed in his mind:  had there been _any_ owner of his contract whom he had ever trusted?

His hands ached, and he tightened his arms around himself, shivering.  _Samantha, please…._   He clung to that thought, as the tide of blackness engulfed him.

[*]

Samantha clung to the shadows as she made her way through the base, up from the cell.  She pressed herself against the wall and stealthily looked down the hall, at the end of which lay the door to Autumn’s office.  _There.  It has to be._   She had caught a glimpse of a safe set into the wall when she was in there earlier; if Autumn had Charon’s contract, then she was positive that was where it would be.  The door was unguarded, and several moments later, she was slipping cautiously through it.

The office was empty; she swung the door silently closed behind her and crossed the room to the safe behind Autumn’s desk.  She’d been fortunate enough to retrieve a bobby pin on the way in, and now she pulled it out.  Carefully— _this is my only bobby pin, and if I break it, I’m screwed_ —she slipped one end of the tool into the lock and began to fiddle with it.  Fortunately, the lock was easy; after only a moment or two, the tumblers clicked and the door of the safe swung open.

Samantha plunged her hands into the safe, shifting papers and stacks of caps aside, shoving pre-war bottles of wine and scotch and whiskey out of the way.  Chems spilled out from among the pile, Jet and Psycho, Med-X and Buffout and Mentats, and she automatically scooped those into her pockets.  _It’s got to be in here somewhere.  It’s **got** to._ She was tearing through the safe, desperate to find Charon’s contract, when a voice from behind stopped her.

“Well, well, well.  What have we here?”

A chill washed over Samantha.  Slowly,  she turned away from the safe.  Behind her, of course, was Colonel Autumn, standing watching her.  His two bodyguards in powered armor flanked him on either side, Gatling lasers aimed directly at her.

 _This was too easy, I knew it wasn’t going to be this easy…._ “Autumn.”  Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak the word.

Colonel Autumn appraised her.  “So.  Charon failed to kill you after all.”  He _tsk_ ed, shaking his head.  “Well, I must say, I’m disappointed, but sadly, not surprised.  Frankly, I had my suspicions after I saw how he obeyed my previous order regarding you.”

“The one to dispose of me, you mean.”  Somewhere inside her, Samantha marveled that her voice sounded so bold and defiant.

“The very same.”  Autumn nodded and clasped his hands behind his back, looking sorrowful.  “I had always understood that those like Charon _could not_ disobey any order given to them by the holder of their contracts.  When I saw what he was willing to do earlier, I was sure of it.  I thought that his obedience was inviolable.”

“Surprise,” Samantha said, managing what she hoped was a nasty grin.

“Not a tenth as surprised as you are, missy,” Autumn said with soft, careful menace, gesturing in such a way as to take in the whole stand-off.  “Or as surprised as Charon will be, when I get through with him.”

The chill deepened; Samantha drew in her breath in sudden fear.  “ _What are you going to do with Charon?!_ ” she demanded, and almost lunged forward; the guards on either side of Autumn raised their weapons, and she jerked to a halt with difficulty, trembling.

Autumn sighed.   “After I saw how Charon obeyed my previous order, I decided to give him a little test.   I have uses for a man like him, you see, but—“  he paused “— _only_ if his obedience really _is_ absolute.  So I gave Charon an order with a fairly obvious loophole, to see if he would take advantage of it.  Regretfully, it seems he did.”  The Enclave officer shook his head again, looking like a parent considering a profoundly disappointing child.  “ _That,_ I am sorry to say, is his misfortune.  He has proven himself to be unreliable; therefore, he must be liquidated.  It really is a pity, but there’s no help for it.”  He gestured to his bodyguards.  “Men:  Deal with our guest here. I’ll go see to Charon myself.”




“He’ll tear you apart,” Samantha spat viciously.

“Why, I shouldn’t think so,” Autumn said, raising an eyebrow.   “You see,” and here he reached into his trenchcoat, pulling out an all-too-familiar sheet of paper, “I still have this.”  He turned away, then glanced back at his guards.  “Make it quick, men.  Don’t make her suffer needlessly.  After all,” he tossed over his shoulder as he strode off down the hallway, the words echoing, “she’s a hero in her own right, and the daughter of a very great man.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

[*]

Samantha moved first, even before the echoes of Autumn’s voice had died away.  She was what she had had to become since leaving the Vault, a creature of the Wastes; the dangers of the Capital Wasteland had honed her reflexes to razor keenness, and it served her well now.  The two guards were just starting to raise their weapons as she snatched Charon’s shotgun from her back, socked it against her shoulder, and squeezed off two shots.

 _Perfect!_ She hissed savagely as the head of the guard on the left exploded in a shower of flesh and bone.  He did not even have time to cry out before he dropped, his armor clanking as he fell to the ground, his heavy weapon spilling out of his grip to clatter against the scuffed linoleum tile.  Samantha didn’t bother to watch him fall, but swung the shotgun immediately to the second guard.  She fired and missed; he moved aside at the last second and the bullets peppered the wall where his head had been.  The heavy Gatling laser was spinning up in his hands.  Samantha fancied she could see an infinitesimal tell-tale glow around the barrels, and she dove for Autumn’s desk—the only cover in the room—the split-second before it fired.  She heard the zing and snap of the lasers as she slid behind the desk and felt the hair on her arms rise as one of the bolts brushed past her.

 _Seconds.  I have seconds.  Less._    Surprise was all she had had, and now it was gone.  She had no armor and was definitely outgunned.  Felling one of the guards had cut the odds, but they were still nowhere close to even.  She heard the guard cursing and fumbling with his laser and whispered a prayer to the God that Butch DeLoria claimed to believe in; Gatling lasers were based off mini-gun technology, and as such were awkward, difficult-to-impossible to manage with any precision, and prone to frequent breakdowns.   _If You’re up there, a little help please—_   Her heart was pounding like a jackrabbit in her chest…

 _And it’s about to get worse._

There was _no_ time left.  _None_.  She plunged a hand into the pocket of her lab coat and yanked out a handful of the chems she had taken from the safe.  Syringes, bottles and pipes went scattering across the floor.  She grabbed two hypos and jammed them into her thigh, gasping as the drugs washed into her system, the tell-tale “floaty” feeling of Med-X and the red rising rage of Psycho.  _One more, one more…_ The whine of the Gatling laser beginning to spin up again filled the world.  Her fumbling fingers closed around the smooth, cool shape of a Jet inhaler and she plunged it into her mouth and triggered the spray down her throat—

Euphoria surged through her, boundless and exhiliarating.  She could do anything, move mountains, break boulders, throttle Super-Mutants with her bare hands.  She was invincible, unstoppable.  No one could touch her.  _Jet, the Wasteland Wanderer’s best friend,_ she thought, and couldn’t suppress a bubbling laugh.  The effect would wear off within moments, but while it lasted….

She dove out from behind the desk approximately one second before a hail of red light blew it into a shower of fragments.  Ash sifted down and Samantha giggled.  _Shit, time to spare!_ She giggled again, then burst into full laughter at the expression on the remaining guard’s face.  “Wait till Autumn sees what you did to his desk!” she cried.

The guard swore viciously, his voice ringing in Samantha’s ears.  He began to bring his weapon around in her direction. To her Jet-enhanced senses, it seemed as if he were moving in slow motion.  She had all the time in the world to raise Charon’s shotgun to her shoulder, sight down it, and carefully select her target.  The multiple barrels of the gun were just swinging toward her as she squeezed the trigger, firing her last remaining shell, and she could see the gun barrels barely beginning their rotation as the guard’s head shattered.  The weapon thundered as it hit the ground, and the hum of the spinning barrels slowed, then stopped. 

Samantha began to shake.  Already the effect of the Jet was beginning to ebb, leaving her weak and shivering. During the few moments it lasted, Jet was wonderful, but the crash always came, and it was hard.  _Too_ hard.  She could feel herself craving it again, her thoughts turning to the other pipes she had seen on the floor, spilling out of her pockets.  It would be so easy—

 _Charon!_   She made a fist and punched herself in the thigh, on the sore place where she had rammed in the two hypos.  _I have to find Charon!  Now!_   The pain helped bring her back to herself; she was able to tear her gaze away from the spilled litter of chems on the floor and focus on the task at hand—saving her follower. 

She checked Charon’s shotgun and swore savagely.  _Empty.  Damn it, Charon always seems to have enough shells, why is it the first time I use his weapon, I run out?_   Of course, his shotgun was a custom job, sort of a crossbreed between a standard shotgun and a hunting rifle, she reflected; like a rifle, it only had a five-round magazine, rather than the more usual twelve.  She should have made him give her all his ammo too, she thought, disgusted with herself.  _Coulda, shoulda, woulda._

A quick check of the two downed guards revealed nothing.  Samantha ran her hands through her hair, feeling the moments slipping away.  Every second she delayed was another lost chance to save the ghoul.  She considered taking their Gatling lasers, and almost instantly rejected it; she could see that the weapons were in terrible condition which would make them even _more_ difficult to control, and in the cramped confines of  the cell where she had left him, there was almost no way she would be able to fire them and _not_ hit her friend.  _I can’t wait.  I have to go now.  I’ll think of something when I get there.  I don’t know what.  Something._    _Don’t worry, Charon,_ she thought, shouldering the empty, useless shotgun.  _I’m coming.  I’ll find a way to save you.  I **promise.**_

[*]

The footsteps reached Charon.  They were, perhaps, the only thing that could.

Time had become meaningless.  There was neither past nor future: nothing but an agonized, endless present stretching on and on and on.  There was the press of the floor underneath him, the wall at his back; the hard embrace of his arms around his knees, the cold metal kiss of his armored gauntlet against his forehead—and the titanic sense of quaking, inchoate dread, surrounding him, crushing him.  Amorphous terror pounded in his chest and beat within his brain, making coherent thought impossible.  The fear was a monstrous thing, with no name, no shape, no substance—and if anything, that made it a thousand times worse.  It defined his whole existence, reducing him to a quivering thing huddled on the floor.  He had reached such a state that nothing could have jolted him out of it—except the footsteps.

Deliberate and terrible, they came tapping down the corridor, the echoes multiplying until they sounded like the tread of an advancing army.  They fell on Charon’s ears like approaching death.  He recognized them at once.  He would not have thought it possible for his fear to increase, and yet it did.  _Now is come the reckoning.  Autumn._

“ _Charon._ ”

The footsteps drew to a halt, right in front of him.  He could see the toes of Autumn’s shining leather boots at the edge of his vision.  His own name tolled in his ears like a death knell, and his heart gave a sudden lurch in his chest.  He stared at the floor.

“Master.”

“ _Look at me._ ”

Charon’s eyes stuttered upward, to brush against Autumn’s stony countenance, then dropped to the floor again.  He felt Autumn’s gaze resting on his shoulders like weight.  A terrible numbness filled him.  Autumn said nothing for a time, letting the silence drag on and on, simply regarding him.

“You _disobeyed_ me.”  

Autumn’s voice was dreadful.

“No, Master.  I d-did not.  Never—“  In a far-off part of his mind, Charon noted with distaste the weak, whining sound of his voice.  _I sound like Gob,_ he thought.  He had seen Gob in Megaton, accompanying his former mistress; had noted with faint, detached contempt the other ghoul’s cringing servility toward his master, Moriarty, and the other members of the town.  He had never thought to hear the same pleading note in his own voice.

“I _ordered_ you to kill our guest, Charon.  Why is she still alive?”  The words were light, even conversational, but Charon could hear the controlled rage growling underneath.  He drew a breath, then another one, fighting for control. 

“N-no, Master.”  He summoned what strength he had, reaching for the steel-hardened obstinacy that had led him to spare Samantha in the first place.  “To kill her was not your order to me. “  He stopped, panting, and wet what remained of his lips.  “Your order was to _shoot_ her, which I have done.  Your _exact words_ were, ‘Go below and _shoot_ her.’  That was your order.  That is what I have done.  I have not disobeyed.”

Somehow, the act of saying it made him feel better, chased the fear back a little.  He risked a glance up at Autumn’s face again.  The Enclave officer revealed nothing, simply staring down at him, one hand plunged into his pocket, the other on his hip.

“Those may have been my exact orders, Charon, but I meant for you to kill her.  And I know you understood as much.”  The hand in his pocket moved.  Charon could see the slight bulge there and knew that Autumn had his hand on the grip of his weapon.  His mind raced.

“No, Master,” he protested.  It was strange: just as with the yao guai earlier, in the face of an enemy, his fear was receding somewhat.  He seized that kernel of defiance within him and held onto it tightly, gently flexing his bandaged hands.  The pain helped to clear his head.  “I may not interpret.  I may only go by your exact wording.  If your orders do not reflect your true intentions, I cannot help that.  I may not disobey your stated orders, even if I think I know that your intent is other.”  He flexed his hands again, harder this time.  Charon knew what he had done constituted a kind of damnation.  Autumn would almost certainly claim—and was _entitled_ to claim—his life as forfeit.  But after all, what was death?  _It is only death, that is all.  The end of the path that has waited for me from the moment of my beginning._   And, he reflected, there were worse deaths than at the hands of a cruel master as punishment for saving a life. He swallowed, hard.  _Then let it be so._

 _ _Autumn was chuckling softly rueful.  "Very good, Charon," he said.  "Very,_ very _good.  You could have been a lawyer in the old days.  But--"  He sighed.  "Not good enough."  Now he drew his hand from his pocket, and Charon saw that yes, he was indeed holding a weapon, his laser pistol.__

 __"I'm disappointed in you, Charon."  He looked down at the ghoul sadly.  "I had very high expectations of you.  I had heard such remarkable things about those like you.  I wanted nothing more than to have one of you in my service.  Unfortunately, as always, it appears that the reality is somewhat less than the stories had led me to believe."  He paused, regarding his follower, and then pronounced the verdict.  "You failed me, Charon."  
_ _

Charon said nothing, staring at the floor.

“You know, of course, what the penalty for failure must be?”

He swallowed again.  _It is only death, that is all._   “There is only one penalty for failure, Master.”

 “Have you anything you wish to say in your defense, not that it will do you much good?”

There was nothing he _could_ say.  The situation was what it was.  “You hold my contract, Master.  My life is yours, to do with as you please.”

 “Unfortunately for you, Charon, that is correct.  A man whose obedience is complete—whom I could trust absolutely—would be of great value to me.  Unfortunately, it appears that you are not that man.  Believe me when I say that I am truly sorry.  I had genuinely hoped for another outcome.” 

There was the snap and whine of Autumn’s laser pistol powering up. Charon remained unmoving, staring at Autumn’s leather shoes.  _So this is how it ends.  Perhaps it is for the best this way…._

 _“Charon!  Charon!”_

His head jerked up at the same moment Autumn turned, to see Samantha pounding down the corridor toward them.  She was out of breath and still wearing the stolen Enclave lab coat, but she thrust one hand into the air, clutching a rolled-scroll of paper.  “ _Look what I have!”_

 _“Mistress._ ” 

The word was a guttural snarl.  Charon surged up off the cold concrete floor, actually baring his teeth, a low, rumbling growl rising in his throat.  Red rage filled his mind.  He saw Autumn’s eyes widen, heard him start to say something, but the words did not register.  It was as if he were hearing something in a foreign language.  Later, he would look back at that moment as the closest he had ever been to going feral, but such reflection was beyond him then.  Autumn raised his weapon, but Charon closed his hands around it and ripped it out of his grip.  He reached forward and wrapped his own bandaged hands around the other man’s throat, not feeling the pain, squeezing tighter and tighter.  The Enclave officer’s face darkened, then turned purple.  His eyes bulged as he clawed feebly at Charon’s arms, but Charon ignored him; he hung on, grinding his thumbs into the other man’s windpipe, until Autumn gave the death rattle and went limp in his arms.

When it was over, Charon let the Enclave officer drop to the ground with a dismal thump.  He stood over the body, panting heavily, trembling and weak with reaction.  Pain had returned; his hands were hurting again.  He cautiously tensed and released his fingers, and ground his teeth as fiery lances shot up his arms all the way to the elbows.  It had been a long time since he had enjoyed killing someone that much.  Even the satisfaction he had taken in killing Ahzrukhal had been a dim and pale thing compared to this.

His eyes found his mistress, and he was surprised; there was a savage triumph on her face that matched his own feelings.  She met his eyes and gave a sudden, vicious grin, the likes of which he had never seen from her before.

“Good riddance,” she said, and kicked the downed man hard in the ribs.  She paused, then did it again, grunting from effort.  “Now let’s see what you had, you bastard.”  She knelt beside the downed Autumn, rapidly going through his pockets.  As she did so, the white scroll she had been holding fluttered from her hand.  A chill went through Charon.

“Mistress.  You dropped—“  His words broke off as he picked the sheet of paper up.  Long, strange columns of figures covered  each side.  He turned it over, front and back, feeling an all-too-familiar terrible fear growing.

 _“This isn’t my contract.”_

“No,” Samantha said, then straightened from Autumn’s body, with a familiar roll of laminated parchment clutched in her grip.  “But _this_ is.”

He stared back and forth from the paper in her hand to Autumn’s corpse.  What he was seeing didn’t seem to make sense; it seemed broken into various fragments that didn’t go together.  “You—  I— you mean when I—  _you didn’t have my contract?_ ”

“No,” she said, “but I do now.  I do now, Charon,” she repeated, holding his eyes reassuringly.  “It’s right here.  See?”

He stared at her. His insides felt cold and hollow.  “You _tricked_ me.”  Surely his own voice could not sound so lost, so confused.

“I had to,” she said quietly.  “It was the only way, don’t you see?”  She looked at him closely.  “Are you all right?”

Charon stood there, breathing hard, trying to sort through the implications.  Autumn’s death, his own reaction, Samantha’s duplicity, the loss and recovery of his contract….  Suddenly it all was just too much, too overwhelming.  He violently shoved the whole mess out of his head, latching on instead to the one thing he _could_ understand: the roll of parchment, safely in Samantha’s grasp.  Just looking at it made him feel calmer.

“Mistress,” he managed at last.

“ _Are_ you all right?” she asked him again, gently.

“Then let’s get out of here.  How’s that sound to you?”

“As you command, Mistress.”  As Samantha started down the hall, he fell into his usual place behind her left shoulder.  Somehow it felt good to be there again.  Autumn’s body lay where it had fallen, at the entrance to the cell.  Neither one of them looked back.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The two of them had made a quick detour to the armory, so Samantha could re-equip herself; she handed Charon’s shotgun back to him happily on gaining her beloved plasma rifle again.  A Stealth Boy for each of them, drawn from Samantha’s stash, provided cover, and the two of them made it out of the factory without further trouble.  Once they were clear, Samantha set a rapid pace; she wanted to be halfway back to Megaton by sundown.

Charon followed in his customary place behind her, saying nothing.  The two of them had not spoken more than absolutely necessary since leaving the factory earlier; the silence hung heavily between them.  Samantha almost preferred it that way.  She had no idea what Charon thought of her deception and was half-afraid to find out.  The fates of both Ahzrukhal and Autumn lurked in her mind.  _That’s twice now…._   She found herself glancing back at him out of the corner of her eye every now and then, wondering; once or twice she met his gaze by accident and they both looked away quickly.

Finally, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, Samantha turned from the road toward the square concrete-block structure of an abandoned power station; it was one of her base camps.  “We can’t make it much farther before the sun goes down.  We’ll stop here for the night.” 

Her voice sounded too loud in her ears.  Charon grunted assent.  He reached to open the gate to the chain-link fence around the structure, the bandaging on his hands standing out white in the gloom; Samantha saw the way his shoulders tensed and hastily said, “No, don’t—  I’ll get it.”

“As you command, Mistress,” was his only reply.  Samantha quickly pulled the gate open, wondering if she heard a slight emphasis on the word “Mistress” and what it might mean if she had.  _Dammit, am I ever going to be able to **stop** wondering now?_    She opened the door the same way, holding it for her follower to pass through, and then closed it behind her, plunging the interior of the station into shadow.  The light of her Pip-Boy 3000 led her to the battery-operated lantern resting on top of the old filing cabinet; she flicked it on.  It chased back the dark a little.

Charon had started to move toward the drum in the center of the floor, preparing to kindle the fire as he usually did.  Samantha winced.  “No—Charon, don’t worry about it.  I’ll take care of it.  You just—relax.”

“Your standing order is that I start the fire as soon as we make camp,” Charon insisted.  He reached for a scrap of board from the pile of wood against the wall to lay in the drum, then stiffened as his fingers curled around it.  The stick slipped out of his grasp and crashed to the cement floor.  His ruined face twitching, Charon bent down to pick it up again.

“No—I mean it.  Don’t worry about it,” Samantha said.  Quickly she crossed the room to get the board herself, and her hands closed around it at the same time as Charon’s; together they straightened, lifting the board.  “I can do it.  You just—“

“Starting the fire is your standing order to me,” Charon insisted again, attempting to take the board from her grasp.  Samantha hung on, pulling it back toward her.  “It is part of my normal duties.”  He had not let the board go, and now he tried to pull it toward him. For some reason Samantha refused to let it go either, and they ended up in a tug of war.

“Charon, I _mean_ it,” Samantha repeated.  “Don’t worry about it.  I can do it.  It’s not that big a deal—“  She yanked on it hard, almost pulling it out of her follower’s grasp this time.  Charon’s jaw set, though his eyes stubbornly avoided hers.

“Starting the fire is part of my duties,” he said obstinately.  “I am fully capable of—“

“I said, don’t _worry_ about it tonight,” Samantha insisted.  “I’ve started fires before, believe it or not, I know how— “  Her follower yanked the board back toward himself, causing her to stumble.  They tussled back and forth over the piece of kindling for a few moments until Samantha straightened.

 “Charon, _drop it!”_ she snapped.

The ghoul immediately released the board and stepped back.  “As you command, Mistress,” he said in that gravelly voice of his, turning his face away.   Samantha stood there, panting a bit, trying to read the set of his shoulders, feeling faintly ridiculous and ashamed of herself at the same time.  Wordlessly, she turned toward the steel drum and began to lay a fire.  Charon retreated to the shadows, standing awkwardly by the wall and looking every bit as uncomfortable as she felt.   She threaded slices of brahmin on skewers and laid them over the fire, then went to climb out of her powered armor.  The sizzle of the cooking meat was the loudest thing in the room.  When they were done, she handed one to Charon.  He took it gingerly; something in those rheumy eyes made Samantha bite her lip. Preparing dinner was usually his job.




While they were eating—or while _she_ was eating and Charon was picking at his food, as he usually did—she screwed up her courage.  “We have to go by Vault 101 tomorrow.  We need to pick up Dogmeat.”  It was not what she had wanted to say, but breaking the silence was hard.

 “As you command, Mistress.”  Charon still did not meet her eyes.

She drew a breath.  “And…we have to go by Springvale.”

“Mistress?”

“To pick up a safe,” she explained around a mouthful of Brahmin meat.  “I think I saw one in one of the ruined houses.  We’ll bring it back home with us and bolt it to the floor.  That way…”  She paused and drew another breath.  “I’ll have somewhere safe to leave your contract when we’re out.”

 This was closer, though still not what she wanted to say.  Charon’s eyes flickered toward her, then dropped to the floor again. “As you say, Mistress.”  The cinderblock wall behind him was more expressive than he was, she thought in frustration.

Swallowing, she forged ahead.  “We need…ah, we need to make some contingency plans,” she managed.  The words were so _heavy;_ speaking was almost a physical effort.  Part of her expected Charon to say, _Well it’s a little late **now**_.  “In case something … ah, happens to me.  I don’t want…”  She left the sentence to trail off.   “I’ve been thinking… How—uh, how would you feel about Lucas Simms taking your contract?  You know, if—  Would that be all right with you?”

“If it is what my mistress commands, then I will obey.”  The white bandages on his hands shone through the gloom.  She saw him flex his fingers, slightly.

“I’m not asking if you will _obey,_ Charon,” she snapped, her own tension too high to permit such equivocating in her follower.  “How will you _feel?”_   

“If he is acceptable to you, Mistress, then he is acceptable to me.”  The ghoul’s flayed features were unreadable.   Samantha groaned inwardly. _I should have known better._   She had had similar conversations with Charon before, and they all ended the same way: the two of them going round and round pointlessly as Samantha pushed him for his view and Charon insisted that his view was whatever hers was.  Sometimes she could get an opinion out of him by a direct order, but she was never sure whether his stated opinion was what he truly thought or whether it was what he thought she wanted to hear. She muttered a curse.




“Well, I’m going to approach Simms about your contract unless you object.  _Do_ you have any objections, Charon?”   She tossed it at him defiantly; it was the same question he always asked her when taking any action on his own initiative.

Charon blinked.  “No, Mistress,” he said, and flexed his hands again.

“Good.  Then it’s settled.”  She picked the last shred of meat off her skewer and flung the stick into the fire angrily.  Her irritation was mostly for herself.  Charon had never really opened up to her, nor did she expect he ever would; he guarded his inner thoughts and feelings more carefully than anyone she had ever known.  _As would be expected,_ she admitted to herself; from what little she knew of Charon’s history, she could understand why he would be so wary of showing others his true thoughts.  _In particular, the one who holds his contract._   As they had spent more time together, there were times when Samantha could sense his barriers weakening; but the slightest hint of pressure, and they would slam back into place.  _And now, when he’s already retreated to monosyllables, I go and snap at him._   _Not helpful._   She heaved a sigh, twining her fingers together and regarding her ghoul follower.

“Charon, we—I—uh…”   _This far out on a limb, might as well jump._   “I owe you an apology.”  Somehow it was easier to say than she had thought it would be.

“As you say, Mistress.”  The ghoul was studiously avoiding her eyes.

She forged ahead.  “What you said to me back in the Enclave encampment—“

Charon’s expression closed.   “I was wrong to say it, Mistress. I should not have spoken to you in that fashion.”




“ _No._ ”  Samantha leaned forward for emphasis.  “You were absolutely right, Charon.  I should have talked to you about this long ago.  As soon as we get back to Megaton where it’s safe, we’re going to sit down together and we’re going to go over exactly what I need to do for you to make sure you’re good.   I don’t want you ever again to find yourself in a situation like what just happened.”

She studied him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face was stone.  “As you command, Mistress.”  _Dammit.  That makes four “As you command, Mistress”es and two “As you say”s so far.  Not good._   She ran one hand restlessly through her hair.  Her deception of him—and the fate of Ahzrukhal and Autumn—loomed large in her mind.

 _Just say it.  Get it out in the open and it can’t hurt you, girl._   She knew that was right.  _But how am I supposed to just ask, “Hey, Charon, are you planning to kill me?”  Especially when he sits there across the fire looking like a granite wall and not saying anything but “As you command”?_

She drew another breath, trying to steady herself.  The thought drifted distantly through her mind that a hypo of Med-X or a puff of Jet would make this whole conversation _so_ much easier, and she slammed the door on it hard.  Bracing herself, she dived in.

“Charon, there’s something I need to ask you, and this won’t be pleasant for either of us.”  Charon tensed immediately, and Samantha bit her lip.  “I could place you under orders to respond, and I _may_ still do so, because it is _that_ important to me.  But I’m going to start by simply asking, in hopes that, if nothing else, you have enough respect for me to tell me the truth.”

 She paused.  Charon had grown more agitated as she spoke, almost squirming in place.  Just seeing that caused a sinking sensation in the pit of Samantha’s stomach.  He actually started to interrupt her:  “Mistress, I—“ before catching himself and falling silent again.  Samantha ran her hands through her hair again, trying to think of the best way to phrase it. 

“I deceived you into killing Autumn,” she said at last.  “I said I had your contract when, at that time, I didn’t.  I need to know:  By doing so, have I offended you to the point where, if I transfer your contract to another, you will find it necessary to shoot me as you did Ahzrukhal?”

 _“What?”_

Charon stared at her as if she had just grown another head.  He looked as if she had said something in a foreign language and he could not grasp her meaning.  _He didn’t expect me to say that,_ she thought, and felt somewhat heartened.

“I watched you kill Autumn,” Samantha pressed on.   “I watched you shoot Ahzrukhal.  Autumn I know about, at least.  I have no idea how Ahzrukhal offended you or what he did, but I need to know.”  She called on her own steel now, the same steel that had allowed her to become the Last Best Hope for Humanity; she drew herself up and met Charon’s filmy eyes head on, boring into them. “I am asking you directly and I want a direct answer:  How close am I to pissing you off to the point where it’s not safe for me to transfer your contract?”




She hadn’t used the word _order_ but she had come very, very close; Charon’s unease grew, as it usually did whenever she caught him on the point of a question about himself.  “Mistress, I—  You don’t understand, “ he said at last.

“Then explain it to me.”

“Ahzrukhal….”  Charon’s filmy eyes turned distant.  “He was an evil bastard.”  There was a chilling quality to his rough voice.  “The things he would do, or would order me to do….  I had no choice but to obey him as long as he held my contract.  But I vowed that I _would not_ let him get away with it.”  The words ground like stone on stone.  “That if I ever had the chance, there _would_ be a reckoning.  Shooting him was not full payback for what he had done—not even close—but I could do no more.  Mistress, you….”   He paused, as if trying to take a grip on himself.  When he spoke, his voice throbbed with surprising intensity.  “You are _nothing_ like he was.  Serving you after serving him…the difference is like….”  He trailed off.  One white-wrapped hand groped vaguely, then fell back to rest against his knee.  “No, Mistress,” he said at last, drawing a breath and burying his unwonted emotion with a visible effort.   “I bear you no ill will.”

“But I _lied_ to you, Charon,” Samantha pressed, scarcely daring to believe.  “I told you that I had your contract when I didn’t and led you to kill the true holder of your contract.  Are you _sure_ you’re just fine with that?”

“You did, Mistress,” Charon admitted, looking troubled.   “But you did not do so out of malice.  You believed it was the only way.”  _He sounds slightly less convinced,_ Samantha noted.  “And you did it to save my life.  If it had not been for you, Autumn would have executed me for….”  He trailed off.  _Can he not bear to name it to himself?_   she wondered. “If you…if you wish to transfer my contract, have no fear.”  He swallowed a bit as he said that.




She stared at him for a long moment, trying to gauge his sincerity, then nodded.  “Thank you for your honesty, Charon.”  Samantha paused.  “And Charon, I just want you to know: if at some point in the future you should ever see me doing anything like…like Ahzrukhal used to do, I want you to call me on it hard.  Okay?  I mean it,” she said as she saw his dubious expression.  “Or, if I give you an order that goes against your conscience.  You tell me, you understand?  I don’t—I see so many of these Wasteland psychos out there, like Jericho, or…..  I don’t want to end up like them.  Help me, Charon.  If you think I’m going off the rails, don’t keep it to yourself, all right?”

Charon’s face had closed again.  “It is not my place to disapprove of my mistress.”  He leaned forward to stir up the fire.

Samantha paused to consider Charon’s warped logic.  _So if he sees me doing something he doesn’t like, he’ll wait until I transfer his contract and then kill me, rather than simply speak up right then and there?_   Because it wasn’t his place, she mused.  Not for the first time, she reflected on the strange effects that Charon’s mysterious early training must have had on his mind.  “Well, I _am_ your mistress, and _I_ say it is.”

“As you command.”  Charon shifted.  After a moment, he ventured, “Mistress…..Have I displeased you in some fashion?”




Now it was Samantha’s turn to stare at Charon.  “Have you—what?”

 “Mistress…if there is something I have done that you do not care for, you have only to tell me and I will correct it.”

Samantha frowned.  “What are you _talking_ about, Charon?  You’re doing fine— _more_ than fine.  Why would you even _ask_ that?”

Charon did not look relieved.  “You—Mistress, you spoke of transferring my contract.  I can only conclude that you are dissatisfied with me for some reason, and I—“

“That was just a hypothetical situation.  Charon, believe me, I have _no_ intention of transferring your contract any time soon.”  Samantha bit her lip and considered adding, _unless you ask me to_.  Studying his expression, she decided against it.  The idea of having his contract transferred was clearly making him uneasy as it was, and she knew enough to know that just mentioning it would get the two of them going around in circles again. She rubbed at her temples and gave a rueful laugh.  “Am I _dissatisfied_ with you?  Hell, Charon, _you_ saved _my_ life back there—what could I possibly have to be dissatisfied with you about?”

Charon leaned forward to prod at the fire.  Yellow and orange light danced across his reddish features.  Staring into the flames, he said slowly, “You saw….Mistress, you saw how I obeyed Colonel Autumn’s order to kill you.”

“I did,” Samantha agreed.  “And?”

Nothing more was forthcoming.  Charon continued to stare into the flames, seeming as if he wished to lose himself there.  The silence crackled with tension; she got the impression that this was a _great_ deal more important to Charon than he dared to say.  After a moment, groping for a way to keep the conversation going, Samantha fumbled, “I was surprised, I’ll admit.  _Pleasantly_ surprised,” she added, with a smile.  Charon made no answer.  “I fully expected you to shoot me without a second thought the moment Autumn gave the order.”

“No, Mistress.”  That was all.  Charon stirred the fire again.

Feeling her way, Samantha floundered, “Had you ever done anything like that before?”

The ghoul’s jaw worked.  “Yes, Mistress.  Twice previously.”

“Twice—“ Samantha began, but her follower interrupted her.  Actually she thought he might not even have heard her.  His words tumbled out as if he were _compelled_ somehow to speak.

“Twice, each time when the alternative was death.  Autumn said he thought there were few of my cohort left.  He is wrong.  As far as I know, I am the _only_ one, Mistress.   Because of what I have done.  The second time …I swore I would never do it again, but….Mistress, I had to.”  Now he met her eyes, almost pleading.  “To save your life.  Mistress, there was no other way.  If there had been any other way I would have taken it, but….”

Samantha stared at him.  _For him, this is practically babbling._ “Charon, wait.  Are you –“  She paused, trying to figure out what was going on.  “Are you expecting me to—to be _mad_ at you?”

“You saw how I obeyed Autumn’s order,” Charon repeated obstinately.

“Yes, but why should I be mad at you for that?  Were your previous masters mad at you?”

“They did not know.”  At her confused look, he elaborated, “Neither of them survived.”

 _Neither of them survived._ Samantha chewed on that for a moment.  “Why not?” she asked, then cursed mentally; she could _see_ her follower’s visage tighten as he locked himself down.

“If my mistress wishes me to discuss this with her, then I will.” 

 _Right.  That’s Charon-speak for “I refuse to talk about this.”_ She sighed.   “Charon, you don’t have to apologize to me for what you did.  You _saved my life,_ ” she said, holding his eyes.  “It would be pretty ungrateful of me to criticize how you did it.”

Her follower stared at the fire some more.  “That is not my superiors would have said during indoctrination.”

Samantha sat up straight.  “Indoctrination?” she repeated.

Charon said nothing.   It might have been because he didn’t want to answer, but Samantha was not sure he had even heard her. He stared at the flames, lost within his own mind.




“I knew what Autumn’s intention was the moment he gave the order to shoot you.  I knew it and yet I did not perform it.  I did—I _chose_ to do other.”  He drew a breath, as if contemplating a terrifying abyss.  “I….I d-disobeyed.”  It sounded as if he were forcing himself to say the word.  “I _disobeyed_ an order and killed the rightful holder of my contract.”  He spoke as if the two things were connected.  Perhaps, Samantha reflected, in his mind they were.  Charon raised his chin.  “You should have let Autumn shoot me,” he concluded severely.

“Never,” Samantha said at once.  “ _Never._   Listen—“

“During indoctrination, we were taught that the thing that made us so valuable was our unquestioning obedience.”  _There’s that word again,_ Samantha thought.  “The holders of our contracts always knew that we would obey _any_ order given to us, instantly and to the best of our ability.  We were living weapons, with no more autonomy than any other weapon.  We were completely safe to trust—for as long as our masters held our contracts.  Because we could not do other than their bidding.  Yet I—I d-disobeyed.  I killed my master.”  He stumbled over the word again.  Now his eyes met hers.  “That guarantee is broken.  If my superiors knew of this, they would have me disposed of as flawed, unworthy.  How can you ever trust me again, Samantha?”   She didn’t think he even realized he’d called her by her name.  “How can you ever trust that I won’t harm you?”

 _How can you ever trust yourself, do you mean?_   Samantha wondered.  The quiet, reserved façade Charon usually hid behind was nowhere in evidence, and now that it was gone, she wished for it back again.  It was so much easier to deal with a quiet, silent follower than one who presented her with all these complex problems to solve.   She groped for something to say.  “Look, Charon—do you honestly think I’d trust you _less_ because you disobeyed an order to kill me?”

Charon contemplated that.  She could almost see the gears turning in his head.  At least, it seemed to have given him pause, and Samantha was pleased—she was actually rather proud of that argument.  At last he said, “But what worth do I have now that I have…have disobeyed?  What value can I have to anyone?”

“Charon, you don’t have worth because you _obey._   You have worth because you are a _human being_.”  _Well, a ghoul, anyway,_ she amended.  “You’re a person, and all people have intrinsic worth—“

“That is untrue,” Charon asserted flatly.  Something as cold and obdurate as granite shone behind his filmy eyes.  Samantha stopped to consider that herself, thinking of the Raiders, of the Slavers of Paradise Falls, of the Hunters of Men that she had encountered a time or two in the Wasteland.  Of Roy Phillips and his gang of ghouls, and what he had pulled at Tenpenny Tower— _after I put my credibility on the line trying to **help** him, no less._   Anger still rose in her at the thought.  She had returned to deal him justice…but what good did it do, _after_ the fact?  Of Autumn himself; her eyes fell on Charon’s white-wrapped hands.

“All right, there are some people out there who aren’t worth the cost in ammo necessary to put them in the ground,” she admitted.  “But Charon— _you’re not one of them._   You’re not a Wasteland psycho or a Slaver, or anything like that.  You are a good person.  You have value, Charon.”  She tried, “ _I_ value you.  Not because you follow my orders, but because I—I think of you as a friend.”

She hesitated a bit over the last part because she didn’t know how he would take it.  Charon was silent for a long moment, thinking.

“I was not trained to be a ‘friend.’”  He sounded almost lost.

Samantha smiled.  “Well, you’re doing a great job so far, so keep it up.” 

She studied Charon’s expression, hoping to see if she had gotten through to him, but could tell nothing. He drew his combat knife, tracing absent designs in the dust covering the cold concrete floor.  His eyes never left the flames.

“Mistress,” he said after a time, “I … I want to promise you something.”

Samantha heard the slight stress on the words _want to_.  “What is it, Charon?” she asked quietly.

“I want to promise you that…”  He trailed off for a moment.  “That no matter what may happen in the future, I will not hurt you, ever.”

 _Again, there it is: that “want to.”_   Samantha could sense there was something else.

“But?” she prompted him.

Charon dropped his faded, rheumy eyes to his combat knife.  He turned it over in his bandaged hands, examining the blade closely.  His voice sounded like steel on cement.  “But….That promise is one that I do not know if I can make.  Life in the Wastelands is uncertain.  If…If you should fail in possession again, if a new master should claim my contract—“

“Yes, but this time we’re going to take precautions so that can’t happen, Charon,” she rushed to reassure him.  “Remember?”

The ghoul negated that with a sharp gesture.  “Life is uncertain,” he repeated.  “Precautions can fail.   If a new master should claim my contract, and he were to order me to….to hurt you, I—“  He trailed off. One hand groped uselessly.




“Couldn’t you resist him, like you did with Autumn?” Samantha ventured.

Charon slowly shook his head.  “You don’t know what you are asking.”  His eyes drifted closed briefly.  “It is so… _hard…_ Mistress, I—I do not want to harm you,” he finished.  “But—my contract holder gives me orders, I do not give them to myself.  I—I cannot say—“

Greatly daring, Samantha reached out one hand and laid it on his patchwork arm.  He did not pull away.

“Charon,” she said, “if you want to make me that promise, then go ahead.  I trust you.”  She was almost surprised to realize that it was true.

The ghoul stared at her.  “You…trust…me?”

“I do.  Your word is good with me.”

He studied her for a long moment.  Slowly, an almost imperceptible tension began to drain from him.  “As you say.”  He straightened a bit.  “Then I give you my word:  come what may, for as long as either of us may live, I will never harm you.  You need have no fear of me.”  Perhaps there was a feather-touch of doubt in his voice, but it was gone by the time the echoes died to stillness in the dust of the power station.

“Thank you, Charon,” Samantha said gravely.  “I am honored.”  And she was; she could see in her follower’s eyes the seriousness of that vow.  “I accept your promise.”  On impulse, she held her hand out.  Looking startled, Charon reached up and took it, somewhat gingerly on account of his bandaged palms.  The two of them shook on it across the crackling flames.

“Now turn in and get some sleep,” Samantha told him gently as they released each other.  “I’ll take first watch tonight.  Remember, we have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“As you command, Mistress,” Charon replied.  Somehow, the unease between the two of them had fallen away.  The ghoul shook out his bedroll and climbed in as Samantha drew her assault rifle, loaded it, and laid it across her knees.  Within moments, the sound of his even breathing filled the room.  Samantha sat up, calm and watchful, in the dusty two-hundred-year-old silence of the abandoned power station.

 _Finis._

 


End file.
